Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/casketofpoeticalOOcraiiala 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

IRVINE 

GIFT   OF 


LEISURE  WORLD  LIBRARY 
LAGUNA  HILLS 


Listen  to  the  water-mill 
Through  the  livelong  day. " 


(  See  Page  123. ") 


':m 


THE  CASKET 


OF 


POETICAL  GEMS 


i 


Choice  Standard  Selections. 

Lines  and  Couplets. 

Album  Verses. 

—  ^-'^ 

COMPILED     BY    A.     CRAIG. 


Chicago:  W.  G.  Holmes,  77  Madison  St. 
1880.  ^ 


K" 


COPYRIGHT  BT 

ADAM  CRAIG, 

1881). 


/•  Blomgren  Bbo8.  &  Co.  Electbotypebs,  Chicago. V 


. 

, 

^ 

o.         ». 

^                 5) 

J- 

"sT 

\ 

/ 

B    ' 

i 

^^fe^rf^J^^ 

> 

CONTENTS. 

AGE. 

TITLE.                                                                                          AUTHOR.            P 

The  May  Queen    .           .           .           .           Alfred  T'nnyson, 

9 

Elegy,  Written  in  a  Country  Churchyard    -   Thomas  Oray, 

19 

Love           -           -                       -           Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge, 

25 

Oh,  Why  Should  the  Spirit  of  Mortal  be  Proud,  Knox, 

29 

The  Last  Man     ....           Thomas  Campbell, 

32 

SUiMMER           .....     Christina  Rossetti, 

35 

Evelyn  Hope        ....           Mobert  Browning, 

37 

The  Cry  of  the  Children      -        Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 

■40 

Lines  Written  While  Sailing  in  a  Boat,             Wordsworth, 

46 

The  Nameless  De^vd           ....       Torn  Hood, 

47 

1      Tired  Out           .           -           .           .           .          Anonymous, 

49 

The  Sensitive  Plant         .           .           -  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley, 

50 

A  Child's  Evening  Prayer      -     Translated  from  the  German, 

63 

Horatius        -           -           -         Thomas  Babington  Macaulay, 

65 

The  Changed  Cross        .           .       Hon.  Mrs.  Charles  Hobart, 

87 

The  Burial  of  Moses         -           .           Mrs.  G.  F.  Alexander, 

91 

Song           .....             Sir  Walter  Scott, 

94 

Katurelle     ..-,..    Anonymous, 

96 

The  Mother's  Heart     -           .           -            Caroline  Norton, 

97 

Little  Billee           .           -             Wm.  Makepeace  Thackeray, 

100 

The  Vagabonds    -           -           .           -           J.T.  Trowbridge, 

102 

The  Parting  Hour  .           -           -           -        Edward  Pollock, 

106 

The  Orient           ...---     Byron, 

108 

Curfew  Must  Not  Ring  To-Night           -           -    Anonymous, 

109 

The  Raven,            ...           -          Edgar  Allan  Poe, 

"3 

My  Pretty,  BrnniNG,  Breathing  Flower,          W.  M.  Praed, 

119 

The  Water  That  Has  Passed           -           -           Anonymous, 

122 

Possession    -----           Bayard  Taylor, 

124 

O,  Lay  Thy  Hand  in  Mine,  Dear     -           -      Gerald  Massey, 

126 

Winter         -           ...           -         William  Cowper, 

127 

■  Kiss  Me  Softly             -            -            -           John  Godfrey  Saxe, 

130 

The  Worn  Wedding  Ring           -             WiUiam  Cox  Bennett, 

131 

\  Wish   ---.--      Samtiel  Bogers, 

134 

She  is  Not  Fair      -           .           .           -        Hartley  Coleridge, 

136 

The  Little  Milliner              -           -             Robert  BucJianan, 

137 

i 

Small  Beginnings              -           -           -          Charles  Mackay, 

145 

i 

My  Mother        .....           Anonymous, 

147 

&_ 

(3) 

^ 

Is  ^ 

■r" 

3                "^ 

-^          a 

\^ 

■ 

1 

■   ■ 

, , 

^ 

«,          ^ 

®  ; 

6j 

\ 

/ 

^ 

4 

CONTENTS. 

•v^ 

■  •'^i.'.r^'.                                             .^ 

a 

*"*T«^*'                        ^ 

TITLE. 

AUTHOR.            PAGE. 

The  Vale  of  Cashmere    - 

Tho'iuaa  Moore, 

148 

Molly  Carew 

Father  Prout, 

150 

The  Origin  of  the  Opal 

Anonymous, 

154 

Man  Was  Made  to  Mourn 

Robert  Burns, 

155 

The  Children 

Charles  Dickens, 

159 

Hunting  Song 

Sir  Walter  Scott, 

162 

The  Greenwood  Shrift 

-  Robert  Southey, 

164 

The  American  Flag 

Joseph  Rodman  Drake, 

169 

Columbia    - 

Timothy  Dwight, 

172 

My  Country    - 

James  Montgomery, 

174 

A  Court  Lady 

•     Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning, 

176 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor        -        Thomas  Campbell, 

181 

Thought 

Christopher  Pearse  Cranch, 

184 

The  Sea  Fight 

Anonymous, 

186 

Only  a  Woman 

Dinah  Maria  Mxilock, 

192 

The  Bells  of  Shandon    - 

.    Father  Prout, 

196 

The  Origin  of  the  Harp 

Thomas  Moore, 

199 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 

Robert  Burns, 

201 

The  Songsters 

James  Thomson, 

203 

The  Two  April  Mornings 

■     William.  Wordsioorth, 

205 

Alpine  Heights 

-  .         -           Krummacher, 

208 

The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers        -    Felicia  Heiiions, 

210 

Seven  Times  Two 

Jean  Ingelow, 

212 

To  a  Skeleton 

•     Anonymous, 

213 

It  Never  Comes  Again 

-  Richard  Henry  Stoddard, 

215 

The  Modern  Belle 

Stark, 

216 

Kissing  's  No  Sin 

-    Anonymous, 

218 

Lessons  For  Life 

Robert  Bums, 

219 

Letters 

Ralph  Wohlo  Emerson, 

221 

Hymn        ... 

Hawkesworth, 

222 

Gold    - 

Abraham  Cowley, 

223 

The  Village  Preacher 

Oliver  Goldsmith 

224 

Little  Breeches 

-     John  Hay, 

227 

The  Fishermen 

Charles  Kingsley, 

230 

Address  to  the  Ocean 

Barry  Cornwall, 

231 

Dr.  Addison  Alexander's 

Monosyllable  Poem        '    - 

233 

Song  of  the  Decanter 

Anonymous, 

235 

1       Lines  and  Couplets 

.    Pope, 

236 

^ 

Album  Verses     - 

Miscellaneous, 

240 

^  & 

/ 

\ 

■^^ 

<s           •- 

v>      ■■'■■  5 

' 

■ 

INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES. 


^ 


PAGE. 

A  dew-drop  came,  with  a  spark  of  flame        -            -            -  -     ^54 

A  mighty  pain  to  love  it  is             -             -             -             -             -  225 

A  sensitive  plant  in  a  garden  grew      -             -            -            -  •       5° 

A  traveller  through  a  dusty  road  strewed  acorns  on  the  lea         -  145 

Ah,  yes — the  fight !     Well,  messmates,  well-      -         -            -  -     186 

All  thoughts,  all  jiassions,  all  delights      ...            -  25 

All  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom            -            -            -  -32 

Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead     -----  37 

Behold  this  ruin !     'T  was  a  skull        -            -             -            -  -     213 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain           .•...-  91 

Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise    -            -            -            -  -     172 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers             -            -  40 

England's  sun  was  slowly  setting         ....  -     109 

Every  day  brings  a  ship              -                 ....  221 

lie  does  well  who  does  his  best           -            -            -             -  "49 

Her  hair  was  tawny  with  gold        -             -             -             -             -  176 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast                -            -            -  -      46 

I  don't  go  much  on  religion           -             -             -             -             -  227 
I  love  contemplating — apart    -             -             -             -             - 
In  sleep's  serene  oblivion  laid        -            .             -             -            - 

It  is  believed  that  this  harp,  which  I  wake  now  for  thee        -  -     199 

It  was  a  time  of  sadness,  and  my  heart      -             -            -            -  87 

It  was  our  wedding  day           -             -            -            -            "  -     124 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low            ...             -  130 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle         -            -  -     108 

Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium    -            -            -            -     '        ■            '  °5 

Listen  to  the  water-mill            -            -            -            -            "  -     122 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill            -             -             ■             '  -           '  *34 

My  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair          -            -            -  -     ^37 

My  goddess  romped  at  school            -----  90 

My  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower               -             -             -  -     1 19 

Near  yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled            -            -  224 

O,  lay  thy  hand  in  mine,  dear              -             -             -             -  -      120 

Ochhone!    Oh!  what  willl  do    -            -            -            -            -  15° 

(5) \ 


181 
222 


A^ 


K 


-A 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


> 


►if:-!:^ 


-^ 


k: 


PAGE. 

Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud             -            -            -  29 

O  thou  vast  Ocean !  ever-sounding  Sea     -            -            .            -  231 

On  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed      ....  208 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary        -            -            -            -            -  113 

Outstretched  beneath  the  leafy  shade               ....  164 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view      .            -            .            -            .  136 

She  sits  in  a  fashionable  parlor             -            -            -                        -  216 

So  the  truth  's  out,  I  '11  grasp  it  like  a  snake         ...  192 

Some  say  that  kissing 's  a  sin               -            -            -            -            -  2i8 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high    -            .            .            .            .  210 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day        -            -            -            -  19 

There  are  gains  for  all  our  losses    -----  215 

There  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride          -            -            -            -  174 

There  was  an  old  decanter             -            .            .            .            .  235 

There  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City           .            -            -            -  ic)0 

There 's  something  in  the  "  parting  hour  "            -            -            -  io6 

Think  not  that  strength  lies  in  the  big,  round  word    ...  233 

Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray     ...             -  203 

Thou  whom  chance  may  hither  lead    ...            -            -  219 

Thought  is  deeper  than  all  speech              -            -            -            •  184 

Three  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west    .            -            -            -  230 

Tired  I  am,  I  '11  go  to  rest             .            -            .            -            .  63 

'T  is  morning;  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb     _             -             .             -  130 

Uprising,  the  lark               ......  203 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay    -  -  -  -  -  -162 

We  are  two  travellers,  Roger  and  I          -            -            -            .  102 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red           ....  205 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast            -            -            -            -  I55 

When  first  thou  earnest,  gently,  shy,  and  fond             -             -             ■  97 

When  freedom  from  her  mountain  height               -             -             -  169 

When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended       ....  159 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest         -            -            -            -            .           .  94 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere       ...  148 

Whose  image  never  may  depart            .            .            -            -            -  147 

Why  do  you  wail,  O  Wind?     Why  do  you  sigh,  O  Sea              -  47 
Winter  is  cold  hearted               -             -             -             -             -             -32 

With  deep  affection            ......  196 

You  bells  in  the  steeple^  ring,  ring  out  your  changes              -            -  212 

You  must  wake  and  call  me  early               ....  9 

Your  wedding  ring  wears  thin,  dear  wife         ....  131 


, 

' 

, 

^ 

5 

ik- 

— 

__C) 

y^ 

61 

V 

7 

P   ' 

1 

^^M 

S^ 

k 

> 

FULL 

PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

page. 

"The  Water-Mill," 

- 

• 

-    Frontispiece 

"The  Rivulet  in  the  Flowery  Dale," 

• 

- 

II 

"Genevieve,"     - 

. 

- 

- 

26 

"The  Lone  One,"    . 

_         -         _ 

- 

. 

-      33 

"Summer," 

. 

. 

- 

35 

"  Evelyn  Hope,"     - 

. 

- 

- 

-      37 

« 

"The  Boat  Her  Silent  Course  Pursues," 

- 

- 

46 

♦'  Why  do  you  Wail, 

O  Wind  ?    Why  do  you  Sigh, 

OSea? 

47 

"The  Hedgeside," 

- 

- 

. 

-      49 

"  Cool  Streams  ARE  iAViNG," 

- 

- 

94 

"Where  the  Flowers  ever  Blossom," 

- 

-     108 

"  There  They  Wait  Their  Wonted  Fodder, 

» 

. 

128 

"Its  Temples  AND  Fountains," 

- 

-     . 

-     148 

"  Fleet  of  Foot  and 

Tall  of  Size," 

- 

-■ 

162 

"Alpine  Heights," 

- 

- 

- 

208 

"  The  Fisher  Boy,"  - 

^&^^^^^ 

A 

-    230 

i 

\ 

^& 

/I 

(7) 

^ 

la 

^ 

■s 

wr- 

—a 

V*" 

' 

^WKE-fIi!l^Y-fQaEE]^;|E^ 


By  Alfred  Tennyson. 


OU  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me 

early,  mothei  dear; 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all 

the  glad  New-year; 
Of    all   the    glad    New-year    mother,   the 

maddest  merriest  day; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother, 

I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 

There's  many  a  black  black  eye,  they  say, 

but  none  so  bright  as  mine; 
•^There's  Margaret  and  Mary,  there's  Kate 
and  Caroline: 

But  none  so  fair  as  little  Alice  in  all  the  land  they  say. 
So  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

I  sleep  so  sound  all  night,  mother,  that  I  shall  never  wake. 
If  you  do  not  call  me  loud  when  the  day  begins  to  break: 
But  I  must  gather  knots  of  flowers,  and  buds  and  garlands 

gay, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o!  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 


\ 


As  I  came  up  the  valley  whom  think  ye  should  I  see, 
But  Robin  leaning  on  the  bridge  beneath  the  hazel-tree? 
He  thought  of  that  sharp  look,  mother,  I  gave  him  yesterday — 
But  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 


He  thought  I  was  a  ghost,  mother,  for  I  was  all  in  white. 
And  I  ran  by  him  without  speaking,  like  a  flash  of  light. 
They  call  me  cruel-hearted,  but  I  care  not  what  they  say. 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 


They  say  he's  dying  all  for  love,  but  that  can  never  be: 
They  say  his  heart  is  breaking,  mother — what  is  that  to  me  ? 
There's  many  a  bolder  lad  'ill  woo  me  any  summer  day, 
And  I'm  to  be  Qeeen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

Little  Efiie  shall  go  with  me  to-morrow  to  the  green, 
And  you'll  be  there,  too,  mother,  to  see  me  made  the  Queen; 
For  the  shepherd  lads  on  every  side  'ill  come  from  far  away, 
And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  wov'n  its  wavy  bowers, 

And  by  the  meadow-trenches  blow  the  faint  sweet  cuckoo- 
flowers; 

And  the  wild  marsh-marigold  shines  like  fire  in  swamps  and 
hollows  gray. 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o*  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

k : \J 


*'  And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill 
Merrily  glance  and  play. " 


-- © 


The  night-winds  come  and  go,  mother,  upon  the  meadow- 
grass, 

And  the  happy  stars  above  them  seem  to  brighten  as  they 
pass; 

There  will  not  be  a  drop  of  rain  the  whole  of  the  livelong 
day. 

And  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 
o'  the  May. 

All  the  valley,  mother,  'ill  be  fresh  and  green  and  still, 
And  the  cowslip  and  the  crowfoot  are  over  all  the  hill. 
And  the  rivulet  in  the  flowery  dale  'ill  merrily  glance  and 

play, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 

So  you  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother 

dear. 
To-morrow  'ill  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad  New-year: 
To-morrow  'ill  be  of  all  the  year  the  maddest  merriest  day, 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to  be  Queen 

o'  the  May. 


kL 


V 


NEW-YEAR'S  EYE. 

If  you're  waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 
For  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year. 
It  is  the  last  New-year  that  I  shall  ever  see. 
Then  you  may  lay  me  low  i'  the  mould  and  think  no  more 
of  me. 


To-night  I  saw  the  sun  set:  he  set  and  left  behind 

The  good  old  year,  the  dear  old  time,  and  all  my  peace  of 

mind; 
And  the  New-year's  coming  up,  mother,  but  I  shall  never  see 
The  blossom  on  the  blackthorn,  the  leaf  upon  the  tree. 

Last  May  we  made  a  crown  of  flowers:  we  had  a  merry  day; 

Beneath  the  hawthorn  on  the  green  they  made  me  Queen  of 
May; 

And*  we  danced  about  the  may-pole  and  in  the  hazel  copse. 

Till  Charles's  Wain  came  out  above  the  tall  white  chimney- 
tops.  . 

There's  not  a. flower  on  all  the  hills;  the  frost  is  on  the  pane: 
I  only  wish  to  live  till  the  snowdrops  come  again: 
I  wish  the  snow  would  melt  and  the  sun  come  out  on  high: 
I  long  to  see  a  flower  so  before  the  day  I  die. 


lA 


-> 


THE    MAY   QUEEN. 


13 


-^ 


The  building  rook  'ill  caw  from  the  windy  tall  elm-tree, 
And  the  tufted  plover  pipe  along  the  fallow  lea, 


And  the  swallow  'ill  come  back  again  with  summer  o'er  the 

wave, 
But  I  shall  lie  alone,  mother,  within  the  mouldering  grave. 


/• 


^. 


>V 


Upon  the  chancel-casement,  and  upon  that  grave  of  mine, 
In  the  early  early  morning  the  summer  sun  'ill  shine, 
Before  the  red  cock  crows  from  the  farm  upon  the  hill, 
When  you  are  warm-asleep,  mother,  and  all  the  world  is  still. 

When  the  flowers  come  again,  mother,  beneath  the  waning 

light 
You'll  never  see  me  more  in  the  long  gray  fields  at  night: 
When  from  the  dry  dark  wold  the  summer  airs  blow  cool 
On  the  oat-grass  and  the  sword-grass,  and  the  bulrush  in  the 

pool. 

You'll  bury  me,  my  mother,  just  beneath  the  hawthorn  shade. 
And  you'll  come  sometimes  and  see  me  where  I  am  lowly  laid. 
I  shall  not  forget  you,  mother,  I  shall  hear  you  when  you  pass. 
With  your  feet  above  my  head  in  the  long  and  pleasant  grass. 

I  have  been  wild  and  wayward,  but  you'll  forgive  me  now; 
You'll  kiss  me,  my  own  mother,  and  forgive  me  ere  I  go; 
Nay,  nay,  you  must  not  weep,  nor  let  your  grief  be  wild. 
You  should  not  fret  for  me,  mother,  you  have  another  child. 

If  I  can  I'll  come  again,  mother,  from  out  my  resting-place; 
Tho'  you'll  not  see  me,  mother,  I  shall  look  upon  your  face; 
Tho'  I  cannot  speak  a  word,  I  shall  hearken  what  you  say. 
And  be  often,  often  with  you  when  you  think  I'm  far  away. 


Good-night,  good-night,  when  I  have  said  good-night  for- 

evermore, 
And  you  see  me  carried  out  from  the  threshold  of  the  door; 
Don't  let  Effie  come  to  see  me  till  my  grave  be  growing  green; 
She'll  be  a  better  child  to  you  than  I  have  ever  been. 


K 


J- 


-■> 


THE    MAY    QUEEN. 


15 


<- 


She'll  find  my  garden-tools  upon  the  granary  floor; 
Let  her  take  'em:  they  are  hers:  I  shall  never  garden  more: 
But  tell  her,  when  I'm  gone,  to  train  the  rose-bush  that  I  set 
About  the  parlor-window  and  the  box  of  mignonette. 

Good-night,  sweet  mother;  call  me  before  the  day  is  born, 
All  night  I  lie  awake,  but  I  fall  asleep  at  morn; 
But  I  would  see  the  sun  rise  upon  the  glad  New-year, 
So,  if  you're  waking,  call  me,  call  me  early,  mother  dear. 


K- 


M 


CONCLUSION. 

I  THOUGHT  to  pass  away  before,  and  yet  alive  I  am; 

And  in  the  fields  all  round  I  hear  the  bleating  of  the  lamb. 

How  sadly,  I  remember,  rose  the  morning  of  the  year! 

To  die  before  the  snowdrop  came,  and  now  the  violet's  here. 

O  sweet  is  the  new  violet,  that  comes  beneath  the  skies, 
And  sweeter  is  the  young  lamb's  voice  to  me  that  cannot  rise, 
And  sweet  is  all  the  land  about,  and  all  the  flowers  that  blow, 
And  sweeter  far  is  death  than  life  to  me  that  long  to  go. 

It  seem'd  so  hard  at  first,  mother,  to  leave  the  blessed  sun. 
And  now  it  seems  as  hard  to  stay,  and  yet  His  will  be  done! 
But  still  I  think  it  can't  be  long  before  I  find  release; 
And  that  good  man,  the  clergyman,  has  told  me  words  of 
peace. 

O  blessings  on  his  kindly  voice  and  on  his  silver  hair  ! 
And  blessings  on  his  whole  life  long,  until  he  meet  me  there ! 
O  blessings  on  his  kindly  heart  and  on  his  silver  head  ! 
A  thousand  times  I  blest  him,  as  he  knelt  beside  my  bed. 

He  taught  me  all  the  mercy,  for  he  show'd  me  all  the  sin. 
Now,  tho'  my  lamp  was  lighted  late,  there's  One  will  let  me  in; 
Nor  would  I  now  be  well,  mother,  again,  if  that  could  be, 
For  my  desire  is  but  to  pass  to  Him  that  died  for  me. 

V — , ^ 


THE    MAY    QUEEN.  1 7 

■>        ►jM-4^^ ^- 

I  did  not  hear  the  dog  howl,  mother,  or  the  death-watch  beat, 
There  came  a  sweeter  token  when  the  night  and  morning  meet; 
But  sit  beside  my  bed,  mother,  and  put  your  hand  in  mine, 
And  Effie  on  the  other  side,  and  I  will  tell  the  sign. 

All  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  the  angels  call: 
It  was  when  the  moon  was  setting,  and  the  dark  was  over  all; 
The  trees  began  to  whisper,  and  the  wind  began  to  roll, 
And  in  the  wild  March-morning  I  heard  them  call  my  soul. 

For  lying  broad  awake  I  thought  of  you  and  Effie  dear; 
I  saw  you  sitting  in  the  house,  and  I  no  longer  here; 
With  all  my  strength  I  pray'd  for  both,  and  so  I  felt  resigned, 
And  up  the  valley  came  a  swell  of  music  on  the  wind. 

I  thought  that  it  was  fancy,  and  I  listen'd  in  my  bed, 

And  then  did  something  speak  to  me — I  know  not  what  was 

said; 
For  great  delight  and  shuddering  took  hold  of  all  my  mind, 
And  up  the  valley  came  again  the  music  on  the  wind. 

But  you  were  sleeping:  and  I  said,  "  It's  not  for  them:  it's 

mine." 
And  if  it  comes  three  times,  I  thought,  I  take  it  for  a  sign. 
And  once  again  it  came,  and  close  beside  the  window-bars. 
Then  seem'd  to  go  right  up  to  Heaven  and  die  among  the 

stars. 

So  now  I  think  my  time  is  near.     I  trust  it  is.     I  know 
The  blessed  music  went  that  way  my  soul  will  have  to  go. 
And  for  myself,  indeed,  I  care  not  if  I  go  to-day. 
But  Effie,  you  must  comfort  ker  when  I  am  past  away. 


^ 


K 


1 8  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 


.1^:^. 


And  say  to  Robin  a  kind  word,  and  tell  him  not  to  fret; 
There's  many  worthier  than  I,  would  make  him  happy  yet. 
If  I  had  lived — I  cannot  tell — I  might  have  been  his  wife; 
But  all  these  things  have  ceased  to  be,  with  my  desire  of  life. 

O  look  !  the  sun  begins  to  rise,  the  heavens  are  in  a  glow;  ^ 
He  shines  upon  a  hundred  fields,  and  all  of  them  I  know. 
And  there  I  move  no  longer  now,  and  there  his  light  may 

shine — 
Wild  flowers  in  the  valley  for  other  hands  than  mine. 

O  sweet  and  strange  it  seems  to  me,  that  ere  this  day  is  done 
The  voice,  that  now  is  speaking,  may  be  beyond  the  sun — 
For  ever  and  for  ever  with  those  just  souls  and  true — 
And  what  is  life,  that  we  should  moan  ?  why  make  we  such 
ado? 

For  ever  and  for  ever,  all  in  a  blessed  home — 
And  there  to  wait  a  little  while  till  you  and  Effie  come — 
To  lie  within  the  light  of  God,  as  I  lie  upon  your  breast — 
And  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling,  and  the  weary  are  at 
rest. 


^J 


^ 


-- «) 


t^ 


-7\ 


By  Thomas  Gray. 


HE  Curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day; 

The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea; 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 


Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight,  * 

And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds: 


Save  that,  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower. 

The  moping  Owl  does  to  the  Moon  complain 

Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower. 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 


K 


Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 

Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

(19) 


A 


■^V 


N" 


~A 


20 


■> 


THE    CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

-ifv-fj^ 


<•- 


The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  Morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 

No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them,  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 

Or  climb  his  knees,  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 


Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield; 

Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke} 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  a-field  ! 

How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 


-Tf 


\ 


\ 


J- 


Let  not  Ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 

Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure; 

Nor  Grandeur  hear^  with  a  disdainful  smile. 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 

And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth,  e'er  gave, 

Await,  alike,  th'  inevitable  hour; — 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud  !  impute  to  these  the  fault, 
If  memory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise; 

Where,  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault, 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn,  or  animated  bust. 

Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  Plonor's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust  ? 

Or  Flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  Death  ? 

Perhaps,  in  this  neglected  spot,  is  laid 

Some  heart,  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  wak'd  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

But  Knowledge,  to  their  eyes,  her  ample  page. 

Rich  with  the  spoils  of  Time,  did  ne'er  unroll; 

Chill  Penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage. 

And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear; 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen. 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


"Tp 


Some  village  Hampden,  that,  with  dauntless  breast, 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood; 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton, — here  may  rest; 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command; 

The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise; 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land. 

And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes, 

Their  lot  forbad:  nor  circumscrib'd  alone 

Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confin'd; 

Forbad  to  wade  through  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind. 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide; 

To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame; 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  Luxury  and  Pride, 

With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife, 
Their  sober  wishes  nevei:  learn'd  to  stray; 

Along  the  cool,  sequester'd  vale  of  life. 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect. 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  high, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd. 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 

The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply; 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews. 

That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

Ik ^l 


ELEGY.  23 

-^ ►^:-4j- «- 

For  who,  to  dumb  Forgetfulness  a  prey, 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd; 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 

Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies; 

Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries; 

E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonor'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate; 

If,  'chance,  by  lonely  Contemplation  led, 

Some  kindred  spirit  shall  inquire  thy  fate; 

Haply,  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say: 

"  Oft  have  we  seen  him,  at  the  peep  of  dawn, 

Brushing,  with  hasty  steps,  the  dews  away. 
To  meet  the  Sun  upon  the  upland  lawn. 

"  There,  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech, 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 

His  listless  length,  at  noontide,  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 

Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling,  as  in  scorn, 

Muttering  his  wayward  fancies,  he  would  rove; 

Now  drooping,  woeful,  wan,  like  one  forlorn, 

Or  craz'd  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

"  One  morn,  I  miss'd  him  on  the  'customed  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favorite  tree; 

Another  came, — nor  yet  beside  the  rill. 

Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood,  was  he; 

k M 


k- 


"  The  next,  with  dirges  due,  in  sad  array, 

Slow  through  the  church-way  path  we  saw  him  borne, 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 

Grav'd  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn." 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  Earth, 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown; 

Fair  Science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth. 
And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send: 
He  gave  to  Misery  all  he  had — a  tear; 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend. 

No  further  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 

Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode: 

(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 


-H|cli0VE.:|H- 


By  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge. 


-  ,  v<4»JiS7 

:V^ry  1 

1 

Jfe) 

.■-?*.:. 

LL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
Are  all  but  ministers  of  Love, 
x\nd  feed  his  sacred  flame. 


y- 


^^\ff\/%-'       y^^Oh  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
_^'^0"^7_        Live  o'er  again,  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  light  of  eve; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

(25) 


Al 


^ 

Q 

^                5>' 

>f- 

Ij 

jST 

/ 

Cl 

< 

26 

THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

> 

->- 

►j|~:-4^^ 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight; 
She  stood  and  Hstened  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush. 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined:  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  own. 

-^- 

< 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

k 

a 

k 

V 

<♦ 

-r 

<5— 

" 

-•        t 

V 

GENEVIEVE. 


LOVE.  2  7 


^^-.-^^ 


But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 

There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight ! 

And  that,  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band. 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land; — 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasped  his  knees; 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away. 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay; 

— His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
The  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity. 


-N 


\^ 


N  71 

28  THE   CASKET    OF   POETICAL    GEMS. 

-^ ►Jf-I-^^^ ^- 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued,  and  cherished  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love,  and  virgin  shame; 
.  And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms. 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up. 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see. 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 


'^ 


~7\ 


0P,  WPY  5P0aLD  ¥PE  gPI^I^F  6F  PB^fj^L 


By  William  Knox. 


SH,  why  should  the  spirit  of, mortal  be  proud? 
Like  a  swift  fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
Man  passeth  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave. 


The  leaves  of  the  oak  and  the  willow  shall  fade, 
Be  scattered  around  and  together  be  laid; 
And  the  young  and  the  old,  and  the  low  and  the  high, 
Shall  moulder  to  dust  and  together  shall  lie. 


The  infant  a  mother  attended  and  loved; 
The  mother  that  infant's  aff"ection  who  proved; 
The  husband  that  mother  and  infant  who  blessed, 
Each,  all,  arfi  away  to  their  dwellings  of  rest. 


The  maid  on  whose  cheek,  on  whose  brow,  in  whose  eye, 
Shone  beauty  and  pleasure, — her  triumphs  are  by; 
And  the  memory  of  those  who  loved  her  and  praised, 
Are  alike  from  the  minds  of  the  living  erased. 

(29) 


A^ 


jSS^ 


30 


THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 


^jf-:-!^^ 


-^ 


The  hand  of  the  king  that  the  sceptre  hath  borne; 
The  brow  of  the  priest  that  the  mitre  hath  worn; 
The  eye  of  the  sage  and  the  heart  of  the  brave, 
Are  hidden  and  lost  in  the  depth  of  the  grave. 

The  peasant  whose  lot  was  to  sow  and  to  reap; 
The  herdsman,  who  climbed  with  his  goats  up  the  steep; 
The  beggar,  who  wandered  in  search  of  his  bread, 
Have  faded  away  like  the  grass  that  we  tread. 

The  saint  who  enjoyed  the  communion  of  heaven, 
The  sinner  who  dared  to  remain  unforgiven. 
The  wise  and  the  foolish,  the  guilty  and  just. 
Have  quietly  mingled  their  bones  in  the  dust. 


•^ 


K- 


So  the  multitude  goes,  like  the  flower  or  the  weed 
That  withers  away  to  let  others  succeed; 
So  the  multitude  comes,  even  those  we  behold. 
To  repeat  every  tale  that  has  often  been  told. 

For  we  are  the  same  our  fathers  have  been; 
We  see  the  same  sights  our  fathers  have  seen, — 
We  drink  the  same  stream  and  view  the  same  sun. 
And  run  the  same  course  our  •fathers  have  run. 

The  thoughts  we  are  thinking  our  fathers  would  think; 
From  the  death  we  are  shrinking  our  fathers  would  shrink; 
To  the  life  we  are  clinging  they  also  would  cling; 
But  it  speeds  for  us  all,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing. 

They  loved,  but  the  story  we  cannot  unfold; 
They  scorned,  but  the  heart  of  the  haughty  is  cold; 
They  grievedj  but  no  wail  from  their  slumbers  will  come; 
They  joyed,  but  the  tongue  of  their  gladness  is  dumb. 


V 


^ 


K 


OH,  WHY   SHOULD   THE    SPIRIT   OF   MORTAL   BE   PROUD?      3 1 

-^ ►^:-l^^ ^- 


They  died,  ay  !  they  died:  and  we  things  that  are  now, 
Who  walk  on  the  turf  that  lies  over  their  brow. 
Who  make  in  their  dwelling  a  transient  abode, 
Meet  the  things  that  they  met  on  their  pilgrimage  road. 

Yea!  hope  and  despondency,  pleasure  and  pain, 
We  mingle  together  in  sunshine  and  rain; 
And  the  smiles  and  the  tears,  the  song  and  the  dirge, 
Still  follow  each  other,  like  surge  upon  surge. 

'Tis  the  wink  of  an  eye,  'tis  the  draught  of  a  breath. 
From  the  blossom  of  health  to  the  paleness  of  death, 
From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and  the  shroud, — 
Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud  ? 


K. 


\^ 


J     V9 


(0 


^W^Yl^hJi^W^J^M'^ 


By  Thomas  Campbell. 


LL  worldly  shapes  shall  melt  in  gloom; 

The  Sun  himself  must  die, 
Before  this  mortal  shall  assume 

Its  immortality  ! 
I  saw  a  vision  in  my  sleep, 
That  gave  my  spirit  strength  to  sweep 

Adown  the  gulf  of  Time  ! 
I  saw  the  last  of  human  mould 
That  shall  Creation's  death  behold. 

As  Adam  saw  her  prime. 


ki 


The  Sun's  eye  had  a  sickly  glare, 

The  Earth  with  age  was  wan, 
The  skeletons  of  nations  were 

Around  that  lonely  man ! 
Some  had  expired  in  fight — the  brands 
Still  rusted  in  their  bony  hands; 

In  plague  and  famine  some  ! 
Earth's  cities  had  no  sound  nor  tread, 
And  ships  were  drifting  with  the  dead 

To  shores  where  all  was  dumb  1 

(32)    • 


:^ 


" 


"  Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood. 
With  dauntless  words  and  high." 


4 

» 

-^ 

_s 

^ 

\ 

-7\ 

o"^ 

THE    LAST   MAN. 

33 

• 

-> ►jf:-!^- 

^. 

-<«• 

y 

Yet,  prophet-like,  that  lone  one  stood, 

With  dauntless  words  and  high, 
That  shook  the  sere  leaves  from  the  wood, 

As  if  a  storm  passed  by; 
Saying,  "  We  are  twins  in  death,  proud  Sun, 
Thy  face  is  cold,  thy  race  is  run — 

'Tis  mercy  bids  thee  go; 
For  thou  ten  thousand,  thousand  years 
Hast  seen  the  tide  of  human  tears. 

That  shall  no  longer  flow. 

"  What  though  beneath  thee  man  put  forth 

His  pomp,  his  pride,  his  skill; 
And  arts  that  made  fire,  flood,  and  earth. 

The  vassals  of  his  will ! 
Yet  mourn  I  not  thy  parted  sway, 
Thou  dim  discrowned*  king  of  day, 

For  all  these  trophied  arts 
And  triumphs,  that  beneath  thee  sprang, 
Healed  not  a  passion,  or  a  pang. 

Entailed  on  human  hearts. 

,     "  Go, — let  oblivion's  curtain  fall 

Upon  the  stage  of  men. 
Nor  with  thy  rising  beams  recall 

Life's  tragedy  again; 
Its  piteous  pageants  bring  not  back, 
Nor  weaken  flesh  upon  the  rack 

Of  pain  anew  to  writhe; 
Stretched  in  disease's  shapes  abhorred. 
Or  mown  in  battle  by  the  sword, 

Like  grass  beneath  the  scythe. 

*  "My  gray,  discrowned  head. "—Charles  I. 

\ 

/ 

\ 

I9 

to 

— V 

d 

"^ 

' 

• 

\ 


^ 


K 

24  THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

--^ ►sM-^ ^- 

"  E'en  I  am  weary  in  yon  skies 

To  watch  thy  fading  fire; 
Test  of  all  sumless  agonies, 

Behold  not  me  expire. 
My  lips  that  speak  thy  dirge  of  death — 
Their  rounded  gasp  and  gurgling  breath 

To  see  thou  shalt  not  boast; 
The  eclipse  of  Nature  spreads  my  pall — 
The  majesty  of  Darkness  shall 

Receive  my  parting  ghost  ! 

"  This  spirit  shall  return  to  him 

That  gave  its  heavenly  spark; 
Yet  think  not,  Sun,  it  shall  be  dim 

When  thou  thyself  art  dark  ! 
No  !  it  shall  live  again,  and  shine 
In  bliss  unknown  to  beams  of  thine. 

By  Him  recalled  to  breath. 
Who  captive  led  captivity, 
Who  robbed  the  Grave  of  victory, 

And  took  the  sting  from  Death  ! 

Go,  Sun,  while  Mercy  holds  me  up 

On  Nature's  awful  waste, 
To  drink  this  last  and  bitter  cup 

Of  grief  that  man  shall  taste — 
Go,  tell  the  night  that  hides  thy  face, 
Thou  saw'st  the  last  of  Adam's  race, 

On  Earth's  sepulchral  clod, 
The  dark'ning  universe  defy 
To  quench  his  immortality, 

Or  shake  his  trust  in  God  !  " 


V 


/ ^l 


SUMMER. 


>t 


K" 


-McgaMME^.3i£<- 


By  Christina  Rossetti. 


i^s^^ssm 


INTER  is  cold-hearted; 

Spring  is  yea  and  nay; 
Autumn  is  a  weather-cock. 

Blown  every  way; 
Summer  days  for  me. 
When  every  leaf  is  on  its  tree, 


When  Robin's  not  a  beggar, 

And  Jenny  Wren's  a  bride. 
And  larks  hang,  singing,  singing,  singing, 

Over  the  wheat-fields  wide. 

And  anchored  lihes  ride. 
And  the  pendulum  spider 

Swings  from  side  to  side, 


And  blue-black  beetles  transact  business, 

And  gnats  fly  in  a  host, 
And  furry  caterpillars  hasten 

That  no  time  be  lost, 
And  moths  grow  fat  and  thrive, 
And  ladybirds  arrive. 

(35) 


\ 


K 


36 


> 


THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 


►jf:-!j< 


< 


Before  green  apples  blush, 

Before  green  nuts  embrown, 

Why,  one  day  in  the  country 
Is  worth  a  month  in  town — 
Is  worth  a  day  and  a  year 

Of  the  dusty,  musty,  lag-last  fashion 
That  days  drone  everywhere. 


-L::::^ 


M 


>^ 


•McEYELYN^pePE.3l£^ 


By  Robert  Browning. 


EAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  geranium-flower, 
Beginning  to  die,  too,  in  the  glass; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  through  the  hinge  and  chink. 


K- 


II. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim. 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir. 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

(371 


Nj 


\ 


It  is  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What !  your  soul  was  pure  and  true,  ' 

The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow-mortals,  nought  beside  ? 


IV. 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love; 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake  ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse  not  a  few: 
Much  is  to  learn  and  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 


But  the  time  will  come — at  last  it  will. 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  Earth,  in  the  years  long  still. 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why,  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

\^        '  -{ 


^ 


K" 


EVELYN    HOPE. 


39 


*  ^^ 


^^•:-4:^ 


-^ 


VI. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed,  or  itself  missed  me: 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope: 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see. 

VII. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold — 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young  smile 

And  the  red  young  mouth  and  the  hair's  young  gold, 
So,  hush — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep — 

See,  I  shut  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand. 
There,  that  is  our  secret:  go  to  sleep; 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


lA 


-McTpEvC^Yv0Fvn^PEvCpmD]REp[.3N- 


By  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning. 


O  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads  against  their 
mothers'. 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows. 
The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest, 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows. 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  towards  the  west — 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  their  sorrow 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow, 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago; 
The  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest, 

The  old  year  is  ending  with  the  frost. 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest. 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost: 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 
In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

(40) 


A^ 


They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy; 
"Your  old  Earth,"  they  say,  "is  very  dreary; 
Our  young  feet,"  they  say,  "  are  very  weak; 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary, — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek: 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children; 

For  the  outside  Earth  is  cold. 
And  we  young  ones  stand  witfiout  in  our  bewildering, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old." 

"  True,"  say  the  children,  "  it  may  happen. 

That  we  die  before  our  time: 
Little  Alice  died  last  year;  her  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snowball,  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her; 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  clay  ! 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  can  wake  her, 

Crying  '  Get  up,  little  Alice,  it  is  day  ! ' 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave  in  sun  and  shower. 
With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries; 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not  know  her, 

For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in  her  eyes. 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lulled  and  stilled  in 

The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime. 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the  children, 
"  That  we  die  before  our  time." 

AUs,  alas,  the  children  !  they  are  seeking 

Death  in  life  as  best  to  have: 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts,  away  from  breaking 
■    With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 


VL 


\ 


± 


42  THE   CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

-¥ ►Jf-I-I^ 


Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and  from  the  city. 

Sing  out,  children,  as  the  little  thrushes  do; 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow  cowslips  pretty, 
Laugh  loud  to  feel  your  fingers  let  them  through  ! 
But  they  answer,  "Are  your  cowslips  of  the  meadows 

Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal-shadows. 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine  ! 

"  For  oh,"  say  the  children,  "  we  are  weary. 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap  ! 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping. 

We  fall  upon  our  faces  trying  to  go; 
And  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as  snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal-dark  underground; 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 

In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

"  For  all  day  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning; 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces. 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  head  with  pulses  burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places; 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling, 

Turns  the  long  light  that  drops  adown  the  wall. 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling — 

All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all. 
And  all  the  day  the  iron  wheels  are  droning, 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  O  ye  wheels '  (breakingout  in  a  mad  moaning), 

'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  ! '  " 


..i 


K: 


-> 


THE    CRY   OF   THE    CHILDREN. 


►jf-:«l^^ 


43 


--^ 


Ay,  be  silent !     Let  them  hear  each  other  breathing  ' 

For  a  mbment,  mouth  to  mouth  ! 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in  a  fresh  wreathing 

Of  their  tender  human  youth  ! 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic  motion 

Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  and  reveals: 
Let  them  prove  their  living  souls  against  the  notion 

That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you,  O  wheels  ! 
Still  all  day  the  iron  wheels  go  onward, 

Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God  is  calling  sunward, 

Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

To  look  up  to  him  and  pray; 
So  the  Blessed  One,  who  blesseth  all  the  others, 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "Who  is  God  that  he  should  hear  us, 

While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is  stirred  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 

Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a  word; 
And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door: 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round  him, 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

"  Two  words,  indeed,  of  praying  we  remember, 

And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'  Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the  chamber, 

We  say  softly  for  a  charm. 
We  know  no  other  words  except  '  Our  Father,' 

And  we  think  that,  in  some  pause  of  angel's  song, 
God  may  pluck  them  with  the  silence  sweet  to  gather. 
And  hold  both  within  his  right  hafld  which  is  strong. 


k- 


^ 


V 


"  Our  Father  ! '      If  he  heard  us,  he  would  surely 

(For  they  call  him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,  smiling  down  the  steep  world  very  purely, 

*  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

"  But  no  !  "  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

"  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone: 
And  they  tell  us,  of  his  image  is  the  master 

'Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !  "  say  the  children,  "  up  in  heaven 

Dark  wheel-like  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us,  grief  has  made  us  unbelieving: 

We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made  us  blind." 
'     Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  disproving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught  by  this  world's  loving. 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  before  you  ! 

They  are  weary  ere  they  run; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine,  nor  the  glory 

Which  is  brighter  than  the  sun. 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without  its  wisdom; 

They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without  its  calm; 
Are  slaves,  without  the  liberty  in  Chris tdom; 
Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without  the  palm: 
Are  worn,  as  if  with  age,  yet  unretrievingly 

The  harvest  of  its  memories  cannot  reap, — 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and  heavenly. 

Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see; 
For  they, mind  you  of  their  angels  in  high  places. 

With  their  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 


^ 


K 


/ 


THE    CRY    OF    THE    CHILDREN. 


45 


^ 


^Jfv4^^ 


■^ 


"  How  long,"  they  say,  "  how  long,  O  cruel  nation, 

Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child's  heart, — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  palpitation. 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold-heaper. 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path  !  • 

But  the  child's  sob  in  the  silence  curses  deeper 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath." 


-M 


\ 


« ^ 


K 


-Mcm]\[Eg*<- 


WRITTEN   WHILE   SAILING   IN   A   BOAT  AT  EVENING. 


BY   WORDSWORTH. 


OW  richly  glows  the  water's  breast 

Before  us,  tinged  with  evening  hues, 
While  facing  thus  the  crimson  west, 

The  boat  her  silent  course  pursues  ! 
And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream ! 

A  little  moment  past  so  smiling  ! 
And  still,  perhaps,  with  faithless  gleam, 

Some  other  loiterers  beguiling. 


Such  views  the  youthful  bard*  allure. 

But  heedless  of  the  following  gloom, 
He  deems  their  coldts  shall  endure 

Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb. 
And  let  him  nurse  his  fond  deceit. 

And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow ! 
Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet. 

Though  grief  and  pain  may  com^  to-morrow ! 


/ 


(46) 


:Mi 


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii|iiiminiiii'iiniiiiiiiiiiiiii(iiiioiii;iiii;i)iiiiiiiiiiiiiwiiiiiii!iii^  nimii|ii!iMii'inniiiiiii<ii 


v®. 


K" 


^- © 


i. 


"71 


->3lcfpE^]\[;qpEIiEgg'fDE7ID.3ls^ 


By  Tom -Hood. 


K 


HY  do  you  wail,  O  Wind?  why  do  you  sigh, 

O  Sea? 
Is  it  remorse  for  the  ships  gone  down,  with  this 

pitiless  shore  on  the  lea? 
Moan,  moan,  moan 
In  the  desolate  night  and  lone! 
Ah,  what  is  the  tale 
You  would  fain  unveil 
In  your  wild  weird  cries  to  me? 

A  gleam  of  white  on  the  shore! — 'tis  not  the  white  sea-foam, 
Nor  wandering  sea-bird's  glimmering*  wing,  for  at  night  no 
sea-birds  roam. 

'Tis  one  of  the  drowned — drowned 
Of  the  hapless  homeward-bound. 
Last  night,  in  the  dark. 
There  perish'd  a  bark 
On  the  bar;  and  'twas  bound  for  home! 

A  woman's  cold  white  corpse — a  woman  so  young  and  fair! 
See,  the  cruel  storm  has  entwined  with  weeds  the  wealth  of 
her  weltering  hair; 

And  the  little,  the  little  hand 
Lies  listless  and  limp  on  the  sand. 
They  have  bound  her  fast 
To  the  wreck  of  a  mast; 
But  the  wild  waves  would  not  spare! 

(47) 


-^l 


FT 


K —  71 

48  THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

-^ — ^v4^- ^- 


]/ 


Look,  how  they  bound  and  leap — cast  themselves  far  o'er 

the  shore, 
Striving  to  seize  on  their  stranded  prey,  and  carry  it  off  once 
more! 

Or  is  it  remorse  or  dread, 
Or  a  longing  to  bury  its  dead, 
That  makes  the  surge 
On  the  ocean-verge 
So  incessantly  howl  and  roar? 

Where  do  they  list  for  her  step?  where  do  they  look  for  her  face? 
Where  are  they  waiting  to  see  her  once  more  in  the  old' 
familiar  place? 

Dead,  dead,  dead! 
In  vain  will  their  tears  be  shed; 
For  not  one  of  them  all, 
Alas  will  fall 
On  that  bosom's  marble  grace! 

Why  do  you  sigh^  O  Sea?  why  do  you  wail,  O  Wind? 
Why  do  you  murmur,. in  mournful  tone,  like  things  with  a 
human  mind? 
,  '      Wail,  wail,  wail. 

Articulate  ocean  and  gale! 
For  the  loveliness  rare. 
So  pallid  and  fair, 
You  slew  in  your  fury  blind! 
Let  us  bear  her  away  to  a  grave  in  the  churchyard's  calm 

green  breast. 
Where  the  sound  of  the  wind  and  waves  in  strife  may  never 
her  peace  molest. 

Though  we  cannot  carve  her  name, 
She  will  slumber  all  the  same; 
And  the  wild-rose  bloom 
Shall  cover  her  tomb, 
And  she  shall  have  perfect  rest. 

Mi 


t'll.'lll\;^^l:\  V  W\\N  vx 


"  Where  the  hedgeside  roses  blow, 
Where  the  little  daisies  grow." 


I\ 


-Hic3FI^ED^0a¥.3lH- 


E  does  well  who  does  his  best; 
Is  he  weary  ?  let  him  rest. 
Brothers  !  I  have  done  my  best, 
I  am  weary — let  me  rest. 
After  toiling  oft  in  vain, 
Baffled,  yet  to  struggle  fain; 
After  toiling  long,  to  gain 
Little  good  with  mickle  pain. 
Let  me  rest.     But  lay  me  low, 
Where  the  hedgeside  roses  blow; 
Where  the  little  daisies  grow, 
Wh.ere  the  winds  a-maying  go; 
Where  the  footpath 'rustics  plod; 
Where  the  breeze-bowed  poplars  nod; 
Where  the  old  woods  worship  God, 
Where  His  pencil  paints  the  sod; 
Where  the  wedded  throstle  sings. 
Where  the  young  bird  tries  his  wings; 
Where  the  wailing  plover  sings, 
Near  the  runlet's  rushing  springs  ! 
Where,  at  times,  the  tempest's  roar. 
Shaking  distant  sea  and  shore, 
Still  will  rave  old  Barnesdale  o'er. 
To  be  heard  by  me  no  more! 
There,  beneath  the  breezy  west. 
Tired  and  thankful,  let  me  rest. 
Like  a  child  that  sleepeth  best 
On  its  mother's  gentle  breast. 


7" 


(49) 


A^ 


\ 


K 


"Tt 


WPE  V  gE^glflYE  V  mnjm. 


By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


PART  I. 

SENSITIVE  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  d«w; 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

v;5\And  the  spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  spirit  of  love,  felt  everywhere  ! 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  earth's  dark 

breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

The  Snowdrop,  and  then  the  Violet, 

Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet; 

And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odor, 
sent 

From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  to  the  instru- 
ment. 


Then  the  pied  Wind-flowers,  and  the  Tulip  tall, 
And  Narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all — 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness. 


/ 


(50) 


V] 


And  the  naiad-like  Lily  of  the  Vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair,  and  passions  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green. 

And  the  Hyacinth,  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense. 
It  was  felt  like  an  odor  within  the  sense. 

And  the  Rose,  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addrest, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare. 

And  the  wand-like  Lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Msenad,  its  moonlight-colored  cup. 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye. 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky. 

And  the  Jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  Tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows  ! 
And  all  rare  blossoms,  from  every  clime, 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream,  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  and,  starting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue. 

Broad  Water-lilies  lay  tremulously. 

And  starry  River-buds  glimmered  by. 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 

With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 


\ 


J^ 


52  THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL   GEMS. 

-^ ►jf:-^^- «• 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across- 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees — 

Were  all  paved  with  Daisies  and  delicate  bells. 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  Asphodels, 
And  flow'rets,  drooping  as  day  drooped  too, 
Fell  into  pavilions  white,  purple,  and  blue, 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew. 

And  from  this  undefiled  paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it). 

When  heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 
Shone  smiling  to  heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 

With  the  light  and  the  odor  its  neighbor  shed, 

Like  young  lovers,  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear, 

Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Received  more  than  all,  it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver. 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower; 
Radiance  and  odor  are  not  its  dower; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love;  its  deep  heart  is  full; 
It  desires  what  it  has  not — the  beautiful ! 


'7  <s- 


~7\ 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 


53 


> 


^:f:«f^^ 


< 


The  light  winds  which,  from  unsustaining 

wings, 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar;^- 

The  plumed  insects,  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea. 
Laden  with  light  and  odor,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass; — 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides 

high. 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 
Each  cloud   faint   with"  the  fragrance  it 

bears; — 

The  quivering  vapors  of  dim  noon-tide. 
Which,  like  a  sea,  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide. 
In  which  every  sound,  a^d  odor,  and  beam. 
Move  as  reeds  in  a  smgle  stream; — 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were. 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear; 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by, 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
And  the  earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love. 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep. 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep; 

And  the  beasts  and  the  birds  and  the  insects  were  drowned 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound; 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress, 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it — consciousness. 


Al 


■)  "v 


Only  overhead  the  sweet  nightingale 

Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant; 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Upgathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest — 
A  sweet  child,  weary  of  its  delight. 
The  feeblest,  and  yet  the  favorite. 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 


^-?: 


Al 


\ 


7t 


THE    SENSITIVE   PLANT. 


'ih'.'ii^ 


55 


PART  II. 

There  was  a  power  in  that  sweet  place — 
An  Eve  in  this  Eden — a  ruling  grace, 
Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 
Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  lady — the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind, 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion, 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean — 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even; 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth, 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  earth  ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race. 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes. 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  paradise. 

As  if  some  bright  spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars,  were  awake; 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 

Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her. 


•■n 

K 


56  THE   CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

— > ^i-|*v4-> 


Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  prest; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast, 
That  the  coming  and  the  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there,  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footstep  trod. 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep, 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder-showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands. 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  osier  bands; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants,  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof — 

In  a  basket  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full. 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull. 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 


A 


^^ 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT.  57 

-^ -Jf-l-i^- ^ 

But  the  bee  and  the  beam-like  ephemeris, 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  the  soft  moths  that  kiss 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 
She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature,  from  earliest  spring, 
Thus  moved  througli  the  garden,  ministering, 
All  the  sweet  season  of  the  summer-tide. 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown — she  died. 


y- 


]v 


58  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

-•$ ►rf:-4^- 


PART  III. 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair,  ^ 

Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened,  were; 
Or  the  waves  of  the  Baiae,  ere,  luminous, 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chant, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners,  deep  and  low; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath. 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death. 
And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin  plank 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass. 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowds  did  pass; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul. 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul; 
Which  at  first  was  lovely,  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 


>^ 


THE   SENSITIVE   PLANT.  59 

-^ -^'.-^^ <r- 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  the  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and  bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose-leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below; 
The  Lilies  were  drooping,  and  white  and  wan, 
Like  the  head  and  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  the  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue. 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew. 
Leaf  after  leaf,  day  by  day. 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  grey,  and  red. 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  passed; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks; 
And  the  leafless  network  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin,  and  all  sweet  flowers. 


-^t^ 


K- 


/[ 


60 


> 


THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 


►jf:«f^^ 


< 


Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow, 

All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a  speck, 

Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 


The  Sensitive  Plant,  like  one  forbid. 
Wept,  an*d  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves  which  together  grew. 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore, 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  winter  came:  the  wind  was  his  whip. 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip; 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills, 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles. 

His  breath  was  a  chain,  which,  without  a  sound, 
The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven  in  his  chariot  throne 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  Arctic  zone. 

Then  the  weeds,  which  were  forms  of  living  death, 
Fled  from  the  frosts  to  the  earth  beneath; 
Their  decay  a,nd  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want; 
And  the  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air, 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 


\ 


THE    SENSITIVE    PLANT. 


.^ 9 


6i 


■i^- 


^^•:-4:^ 


■^ 


First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain, 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again; 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew, 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out. 
Shook  the  boughs  thus  laden  and  heavy  and  stiff, 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came  back, 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck; 

But  the  mandrakes,  and  toadstools,  and  docks,  and  darnels. 

Rose,  like  the  dead,  from  their  buried  charnels. 


V 


^ 


V 


CONCLUSION. 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat, 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined, 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seen, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream. 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant,  if  one  considers  it. 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be. 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odors  there, 
In  truth,  have  never  passed  away; 
*Tis  we,  'tis  ours  are  changed — not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight. 
There  is  no  death,  nor  change;  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  hght,  being  themselves  obscure. 


/L 


-^l 


-McpeR^Tiag.*^ 


^t^\ 


By  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


ARS  PORSENA  of  Clusium 

By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore 
That  the  great  house  of  Tarquin    . 

Should  suffer  wrong  no  more. 
By  the  Nine  Gods  he  swore  k, 

And  named  a  trysting  day, 
And  bade  his  messengers  ride  forth, 

East  and  west  and  south  and  north, 
To  summon  his  array. 


East  and  west  and  south  and  north 

The  messengers  ride  fast. 
And  tower  and  town  and  cottage 

Have  heard  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Shame  on  the  false  Etruscan 

Who  lingers  in  his  home 
When  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Is  on  the  march  for  Rome. 


/ 


The  horsemen  and  the  footmen 
Are  pouring  in  amain, 

From  many  a  stately  market-place; 
From  many  a  fruitful  plain; 

(65) 


\ 


\ 


—r 


66  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

-^ ►If-l-i^- ■ 


*7^ 


From  many  a  lonely  hamlet, 

Which,  hid  by  beech  and  pine, 

Like  an  eagle's  nest,  hangs  on  the  crest 
Of  purple  Apennine; 


From  lordly  Volaterrae, 

Where  scowls  the  far-famed  hold 
Piled  by  the  hands  of  giants 

For  godlike  kings  of  old; 
From  seagirt  Populonia, 

Whose  sentinels  descry 
Sardinia's  snowy  mountain-tops 

Fringing  the  southern  sky; 

From  the  proud  mart  of  Pisai, 

Queen  of  the  western  waves, 
Where  ride  Massilia's  triremes 

Heavy  with  fair-haired  slaves; 
From  where  sweet  Clanis  wanders 

Through  corn  and  vines  and  flowers; 
From  where  Cortona  lifts  to  heaven 

Her  diadem  of  towers. 


Tall  are  the  oaks  whose  acorns 

Drop  in  dark  Auser's  rill; 
Fat  are  the  stags  that  champ  the  boughs 

Of  the  Ciminian  hill; 
Beyond  all  streams  Clitumnus 

Is  to  the  herdsman  dear; 
Best  of  all  pools  for  fowler  loves 

The  great  Volsinian  mere. 


\l 


f 

J 

^ 

a 

-— 

— — 

_s 

^ 

\ 

/ 

|0 

\ 

HORATIUS. 

67 

» 

-»?-                                                  '^^     '^^ 

But  now  no  stroke  of  woodman 

Is  heard  by  Auser's  rill; 

No  hunter  tracks  the  stag's  green  path 

Up  the  Ciminian  hill; 

Unwatched  along  Clitumnus 

Gazes  the  milk-white  steer; 

Unharmed  the  water-fowl  may  dip 

' 

In  the  Volsinian  mere. 

The  harvests  of  Arretium, 

This  year,  old  men  shall  reap; 

This  year,  young  boys  in  Umbro 

Shall  plunge  the  struggling  sheep; 

And  in  the  vats  of  Luna, 

This  year,  the  must  shall  foam 

Round  the  white  feet  of  laughing  girls, 

Whose  sires  have  marched  to  Rome. 

There  be  thirty  chosen  prophets, 

The  wisest  of  the  land. 

Who  alway  by  Lars  Porsena 

Both  morn  and  evening  stand: 

Evening  and  morn  the  Thirty 

Have  turned  the  versus  o'er. 

Traced  from  the  right  on  linen  white 

By  mighty  seers  of  yore. 

And  with  one  voice  the  Thirty 

Have  their  glad  answer  given; 

"  Go  forth,  go  forth,  Lars  Porsena; 

Go  forth,  beloved  of  Heaven; 

> 

/ 

A 

s> 

F 

to 

-^ 

— s 

\^ 

■ 

, 

^•v 

Q 

ih~ 

^        <=' 

^ 

6] 

V 

/ 

f 

\ 

68 

THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

' 

f 

— ^ 

•*6^-5*^ 

-^r— 

Go,  and  return  in  glory 

To  Clusium's  royal  dome; 

And  hang  round  Nurscia's  altars 

The  golden  shields  of  Rome." 

And  now  hath  every  city 

Sent  up  her  tale  of  men; 

.  The  foot  are  fourscore  thousand, 

The  horse  are  thousands  ten. 

Before  the  gates  of  Sutrium 

Is  met  the  great  array. 

A  proud  man  was  Lars  Porsena 

Upon  the  trysting  day. 

• 
For  all  the  Etruscan  armies 

Were  ranged  beneath  his  eye, 

And  many  a  banished  Roman 

And  many  a  stout  ally, 

And  with  a  mighty  following 

To  join  the  muster  came 

The  Tusculan  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the. Latin  name. 

But  by  the  yellow  Tiber 

Was  tumult  and  affright: 

From  all  the  spacious  champaign 

To  Rome  men  took  their  flight. 

A  mile  around  the  city, 

The  throng  stopped  up  the  ways; 

A  fearful  sight  it  was  to  see 

i 

Through  two  long  nights  and  days. 

k 

^  o) 

/ 

\ 

is 

^F 

(5 

w^ 

"•     « 

\ 

■ 

• 

^ 

« 

-— 

^                C) 

^^ 

6 

\ 

/ 

jO 

\ 

HORATIUS. 

69 

► 

'S                                                              I'^i.'.C^'t 

— i^— 

'«^                                          **6    •^* 

^^ 

For  aged  folk  on  crutches, 

And  women  great  with  child, 

And  mothers  sobbing  over  babes 

That  clung  to  them  and  smiled, 

And  sick  men  borne  in  litters 

. 

High  on  the  necks  of  slaves, 

And  troops  of  sun-burned  husbandmen 

With  reaping-hooks  and  staves. 

And  droves  of  mules  and  asses 

Laden  with  skins  of  wine. 
And  endless  flocks  of  goats  and  sheep, 

And  endless  herds  of  kine, 
And  endless  trains  of  wagons 

That  cracked  beneath  the  weight 
Of  corn-sacks  and  of  household  goods, 

Choked  every  roaring  gate. 

Now  from  the  rock  Tarpeian, 
Could  the  wan  burghers  spy 

The  line  of  blazing  villages 
Red  in  the  midnight  sky. 

The  Fathers  of  the  City, 

They  sat  all  night  and  day, 

For  every  hour  some  horseman  came 

With  tidings  of  dismay. 

To  eastward  and  to  westward 

Have  spread  the  Tuscan  bands; 
Nor  house,  nor  fence,  nor  dovecote 

i 

In~Crustumerium  stands. 

\ 

& 

/_ 

N 

Is 

^ 

O 

-— 

-*       0 

\^ 

■ 

, 

. 

,> 

-3                -. 

— - 

— 9 

^ 

G^ 

\ 

/ 

p 

} 

70 

THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

> 

'«> 

•*6  .^*'                              N^ 

Verbenna  down  to  Ostia 

Hath  wasted  all  the  plain; 

Astur  hath  stormed  Janiculum, 

And  the  stout  guards  are  slain. 

' 

I  wis,  in  all  the  Senate, 

There  was  no  heart  so  bold, 

But  sore  it  ached,  and  fast  it  beat, 

When  that  ill  news  was  told. 

Forthwith  up  rose  the  Consul, 

Up  rose  the  Fathers  all; 

In  haste  they  girded  up  their  gowns, 

And  hied  them  to  the  wall. 

They  held  a  council  standing 

Before  the  River-gate; 

Short  time  was  there,  ye  well  may  guess, 

For  musing  or  debate. 

Out  spake  the  Consul  roundly: 

"  The  bridge  must  straight  go  down; 

For,  since  Janiculum  is  lost, 

Naught  else  can  save  the  town. 

Just  then  a  scout  came  flying, 

All  wild  with  haste  and  fear: 

"  To  arms  !   to  arms  !   Sir  Consul; 

Lars  Porsena  is  here." 

On  the  low  hills  to  westward 

The  Consul  fixed  his  eye. 

And  saw  the  swarthy  storm  of  dust 

< 

Rise  fast  along  the  sky. 

k 

& 

/           . 

\ 

W 

V^ 

(9                "^ 

-     c 

V 

IV 


HORATIUS. 


4-:-^^ 


-S>   ^ 


/ 


71 


And  nearer  fast  and  nearer 

Doth  the  red  whirlwind  come; 
And  louder  still,  and  still  more  loud 
From  underneath  that  rolling  cloud, 
Is  heard  the  trumpet's  war-note  proud. 

The  trampling,  and  the  hum. 
And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  through  the  gloom  appears. 
Far  to  the  left  and  far  to  the  right, 
In  broken  gleams  of  dark-blue  light, 
The  long  array  of  helmets  bright. 

The  long  array  of  spears. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly, 

Above  that  glimmering  line, 
Now  might  ye  see  the  banners 

Of  twelve  fair  cities  shine; 
But  the  banner  of  proud  Clusium 

Was  highest  of  them  all. 
The  terror  of  the  Umbrian, 

The  terror  of  the  Gaul. 

And  plainly  and  more  plainly 

Now  might  the  burghers  know, 
By  port  and  vest,  by  horse  and  crest. 

Each  warlike  Lucomo. 
There  Cilnius  of  Arretium 

On  his  fleet  roan  was  seen; 
And  Astur  of  the  four-fold  shield, 
Girt  with  the  brand  none  else  may  wield, 
Tolumnius  with  the  belt  of  gold. 
And  dark  Verbenna  from  the  hold 

By  reedy  Thrasymene. 


~ 


-  .    y 

THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 


72 


Fast  by  the  royal  standard, 

O'erlooking  all  the  war, 
Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 

Sat  in  his  ivory  car. 
By  the  right  wheel  rode  Mamilius, 

Prince  of  the  Latin  name; 
And  by  the  left  false  Sextus, 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame. 


But  when  the  face  of  Sextus 

Was  seen  among  the  foes 
A  yell  that  rent  the  firmament 

From  all  the  town  arose. 
On  the  house-tops  was  no  woman 

But  spat  towards  him  and  hissed; 
No  child  but  screamed  out  curses, 

And  shook  its  little  fist. 


But  the  Consul's  brow  was  sad, 

And  the  Consul's  speech  was  low, 
And  darkly  looked  he  at  the  wall, 

And  darkly  at  the  foe. 
"  Their  van  will  be  upon  us 

Before  the  bridge  goes  down; 
And  if  they  once  may  win  the  bridge, 

What  hope  to  save  the  town  ?  " 

Then  out  spake  brave  Horatius, 
The  Captain  of  the  gate: 

"  To  every  man  upon  this  earth 
Death  cometh  soon  or  late. 


■fU 


1\        ——  7 

HORATIUS.  73 


►Jfv-f^^ 


And  how  can  man  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds, 

For  the  ashes  of  his  fathers 

And  the  temples  of  his  Gods, 


"  And  for  the  tender  mother 

Who  dandled  him  to  rest. 
And  for  the  wife  who  nurses 

His  baby  at  her  breast, 
And  for  the  holy  maidens 

Who  feed  the  eternal  flame, 
To  save  them  from  false  Sextus 

That  wrought  the  deed  of  shame  ? 


"  Hew  down  the  bridge,  Sir  Consul, 

With  all  the  speed  ye  may; 
I,  with  two  more  to  help  me. 

Will  hold  the  foe  in  play. 
In  yon  strait  path  a  thousand 

May  well  be  stopped  by  three. 
Now  who  will  stand  on  either  hand, 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  me  ?  " 


Then  out  spake  Spurius  Lartius 

A  Ramnian  proud  was  he: 
"  Lo,  I  will  stand  at  thy  right  hand. 

And  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 
And  out  spake  strong  Herminius; 

Of  Titian  blood  was  he: 
"  I  will  abide  on  thy  left  side, 

Add  keep  the  bridge  with  thee." 

]^ '. \| 


\ 


"  Horatius,"  quoth  the  Consul, 

"  As  thou  sayest,  so  let  it  be." 
And  straight  against  that  great  array 

Forth  went  the  dauntless  Three. 
For  Romans  in  Rome's  quarrel 

Spared  neither  land  nor  gold, 
Nor  son  nor  wife,  nor  limb  nor  life, 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Then  none  was  for  a  party; 

Then  all  were  for  the  state: 
Then  the  great  man  helped  the  poor. 

And  the  poor  man  loved  the  great: 
Then  lands  were  fairly  portioned: 

Then  spoils  were  fairly  sold: 
The  Romans  were  like  brothers 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Now  Roman  is  to  Roman 

More  hateful  than  a  foe. 
And  the  Tribunes  beard  the  high, 

And  the  Fathers  grind  the  low. 
As  we  wax  hot  in  faction, 

In  battle  we  wax  cold: 
Wherefore  men  fight  not  as  they  fought 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Now  while  the  Three  were  tightening 
Their  harness  on  their  backs, 

The  Consul  was  the  foremost  man 
To  take  in  hand  an  axe: 


i  a — 

«.                                                                                                                                                   ^ 

_S) 

^ , 

|\- 

"7 

? 

HORATIUS.                                                          75 

f 

%                            ,,•(?, ,V-9».                              ^. 

'^                      ^^r-."^**                 -'    Sl' 

And  Fathers  mixed  with  Commons 

Seized  hatchet,  bar,  and  crow, 

And  smote  upon  the  planks  above, 

And  loosed  the  props  below. 

Meanwhile  the  Tuscan  army, 

Right  glorious  to  behold, 

Came  flashing  back  the  noonday  light, 

Rank  behind  rank,  like  surges  bright 

Of  a  broad  sea  of  gold. 

Four  hundred  trumpets  sounded 

A  peal  of  \yarlike  glee. 

As  that  great  host,  with  measured  tread, 

And  spears  advanced,  and  ensigns  spread, 

Rolled  slowly  towards  the  bridge's  head. 

Where  stood  the  dauntless  Three. 

The  Three  stood  calm  and  silent 

And  looked  upon  the  foes. 

And  a  great  shout  of  laughter 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose: 

And  forth  three  chiefs  came  spurring 

Before  that  deep  array; 

To  earth  they  sprang,  their  swords  they  drew 

And  lifted  high  their  shields,  and  flew 

To  win  the  narrow  way; 

Annus  from  green  Tifernum, 

Lord  of  the  Hill  of  Vines; 

And  Seius,  whose  eight  hundred  slaves 

Sic]^en  in  Ilva's  mines; 

\ 

/ 

A 

b 

*■  (5 

— ir-                                                                                                                                                                  -^ 

■    (S 

\^ 

■ 

. 

■ 

And  Picus,  long  to  Clusifim 

Vassal  in  peace  and  war, 
Who  led  to  fight  his  Umbrian  powers 
From  that  gray  crag  where,  girt  with  towers, 
The  fortress  of  Nequinum  lowers 

O'er  the  pale  waves  of  Nar. 

Stout  Lartius  hurled  down  Annus 

Into  the  stream  beneath: 
Herminius  struck  at  Seius, 

And  clove  him  to  the  teeth: 
At  Picus  brave  Horatius 

Darted  one  fiery  thrust; 
And  the  proud  Umbrian's  gilded  arms 

Clashed  in  the  bloody  dust. 


Then  Ocnus  of  Falerii 

Rushed  on  the  Roman  Three; 
And  Lausulus  of  Urgo, 

The  rover  of  the  sea; 
And  Aruns  of  Volsinium, 

Who  slew  the  great  wild  boar. 
The  great  wild  boar  that  had  his  den 
Amidst  the  reeds  of  Cosa's  fen, 
And  wasted  fields,  and  slaughtered  men. 

Along  Albinia's  shore. 


Herminius  smote  down  Aruns: 
Lartius  laid  Ocnus  low: 

Right  to  the  heart  of  Lausulus 
Horatius  sent  a  blow. 


-M 


^ 


, 

Q li^ 

^ 

5> 

J- 

\ 

/ 

'    0   * 

HORATIUS. 

77 

> 

%                                              1-^    '-'^^' 

^r- 

>r                                             '*6-"0** 

"  Lie  there,"  he  cried,  "  fell  pirate  ! 

No  more,  aghast  and  pale, 

From  Ostia's  walls  the  crowd  shall  mark 

The  track  of  thy  destroying  bark. 

No  more  Campania's  hinds  shall  fly 

To  woods  and  caverns  when  they  spy 

Thy  thrice  accursed  sail." 

But  now  no  sound  of  laughter 

•                Was  heard  among  the  foes. 

A  wild  and  wrathful  clamour 

From  all  the  vanguard  rose. 

Six  spears'  lengths  from  the  entrance 

Halted  that  deep  array, 

And  for  a  space  no  man  came  forth 

To  win  the  narrow  way. 

But  hark  !  the  cry  is  Astur: 

And  lo  !  the  ranks  divide; 

And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Comes  with  his  stately  stride. 

Upon  his  ample  shoulders 

Clangs  loud  the  four-fold  shield. 

And  in  his  hand  he  shakes  the  brand 

Which  none  but  he  can  wield. 

He  smiled  on  those  bold  Romans 

A  smile  serene  and  high; 

He  eyed  thfe  flinching  Tuscans, 

And  scorn  was  in  his  eye. 

k 

/ 

A 

Is 

3 ^ 

—^ — 

— & 

r* 

' 

■ 

^■:  ^  A 


78 


-n 


THE   CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

^ ■ — -if-:-4> ^ 

Quoth  he,  "  The  she-wolf's  litter 

Stand  savagely  at  bay: 
But  will  ye  dare  to  follow, 

If  Astur  clears  the  way  ?  " 


Then,  whirling  up  his  broadsword 

With  both  hands  to  the  height, 
He  rushed  against  Horatius, 

And  smote  with  all  his  might. 
With  shield  and  blade  Horatius 

Right  deftly  turned  the  blow. 
The  blow,  though  turned,  came  yet  too  nigh; 
It  missed  his  helm,  but  gashed  his  thigh: 
The  Tuscans  1-aised  a  joyful  cry 

To  see  the  red  blood  flow. 


He  reeled,  and  on  Herminius 

He  leaned  one  breathing-space; 
Then,  like  a  wild  cat  mad  with  wounds, 

Sprang  right  at  Astur's  face. 
Through  teeth,  and  skull,  and  helnaet. 

So  fierce  a  thrust  he  sped, 
The  good  sword  stood  a  hand-breadth  out 

Behind  the  Tuscan's  head. 


And  the  great  Lord  of  Luna 

Fell  at  that  deadly  stroke, 
As  falls  on  Mount  Alvernus 

A  thunder-smitten  oak. 

\^ ^ 


V 

n 

-^ 

^               G) 

>-\ 

\ 

/ 

0 

HORATIUS. 

79 

► 

-^                              ^*6'"-  S*' 

Far  o'er  the  crashing  forest 

The  giant  arms  lie  spread; 

And  the  pale  augurs,  muttering  low, 

Gaze  on  the  blasted  head. 

On  Astur's  throat  Horatius 

Right  firmly  pressed  his  heel, 

And  thrice  and  four  times  tugged  amain 

Ere  he  wrenched  out  the  steel. 

"And  see,"  he  cried,  "the  welcome 

Fair  guests,  that  waits  you  here  ! 

,       What  noble  Lucomo  comes  next, 

. 

To  taste  our  Roman  cheer  ?  " 

But  at  this  haughty  challenge 

A  sullen  murmur  ran. 

Mingled  of  wrath,  and  shame,  and  dread, 

Along  that  glittering  van. 

There  lacked  not  men  of  prowess, 

Nor  men  of  lordly  race; 

For  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Were  round  the  fatal  place. 

But  all  Etruria's  noblest 

Felt  their  hearts  sink  to  see 
On  the  earth  the  bloody  corpses. 

In  the  path  the  dauntless  Three; 
And,  from  the  ghastly  entrance 

Whei^  those  bold  Romans  stood, 
All  shrank,  like  boys  who  unaware, 

k 

y 

/ 

N 

Is 

7 

-•           O 

^ 

(s 

"" 

■ 

' 

Ranging  the  woods  to  start  a  hare, 
Come  to  the  mouth  of  the  dark  lair 
Where,  growling  low,  a  fierce  old  bear 
Lies  amidst  bones  and  blood. 


Was  none  who  would  be  foremost 

To  lead  such  dire  attack; 
But  those  behind  cried  "  Forward  !  " 

And  those  before  cried  "  Back  !  " 
And  backward  now  and  forward 

Wavers  the  deep  array: 
And  on  the  tossing  sea  of  steel, 
To  and  fro  the  standards  reel; 
And  the  victorious  trumpet's  peal 

Dies  fitfully  away. 


Yet  one  man  for  one  moment 

Strode  out  before  the  crowd; 
Well  known  was  he  to  all  the  Three, 

As  they  gave  him  greeting  loud. 
"  Now  welcome,  welcome  Sextus  ! 

Now  welcome  to  thy  home  ! 
Why  dost  thou  stay,  and  turn  away  ? 

Here  lies  the  road  to  Rome." 


Thrice  looked  he  at  the  city; 

Thrice  looked  he  at  the  dead; 
And  thrice  came  on  in  fury, 

And  thrice  turned  back  in  dread: 


Vv 


y- 


And,  white  with  fear  and  hatred, 
Scowled  at  the  narrow  way 

Where,  wallowing  in  a  pool  of  blood, 
The  bravest  Tuscans  lay. 


But  meanwhile  axe  and  lever 
Have  manfully  been  plied, 

And  now  the  bridge  hangs  tottering 
Above  the  boiling  tide. 

"  Come  back,  come  back,  Horatius  !  " 
Loud  cried  the  Fathers  all. 

"  Back,  Lai;tius  !  back,  Herminius  ! 
Back,  ere  the  ruin  fall !  " 


Back  darted  Spurius  Lartius; 

Herminius  darted  back: 
And,  as  they  passed,  beneath  their  feet 

They  felt  the  timbers  crack. 
But  when  they  turned  their  faces. 

And  on  the  farther  shore 
Saw  brave  Horatius  stand  alone, 

They  would  have  crossed  once  more; 

But  with  a  crash  like  thunder 

Fell  every  loosened  beam, 
And,  like  a  dam,  the  mighty  wreck 

Lay  right  athwart  the  stream; 
And  a  long  shout  of  triumph 

Rose  from  the  walls  of  Rome, 
As  to  the  highest  turret-tops 

Was  splashed  the  yellow  foam. 

^ .  \j 


\ 


And,  like  a  horse  unbroken 

When  first  he  feels  the  rein, 
The  furious  river  struggled  hard, 

And  tossed  his  tawny  mane. 
And  burst  the  curb,  and  bounded, 

Rejoicing  to  be  free, 
And  whirling  down,  in  fierce  career 
Battlement,  and  plank,  and  pier. 

Rushed  headlong  to  the  sea. 


Alone  stood  brave  Horatius, 

But  constant  still  in  mind; 
Thrice  thirty  thousand  foes  before. 

And  the  broad  flood  behind. 
**  Down  with  him  !  "  cried  false  Sextus, 

With  a  smile  on  his  pale  face. 
"  Now  yield  thee,"  cried  Lars  Porsena, 

"  Now  yield  thee  to  our  grace." 

Round  turned  he,  as  not  deigning 

Those  craven  ranks  to  see; 
Naught  spake  he  to  Lars  Porsena, 

To  Sextus  naught  spake  he: 
But  he  saw  on  Palatinus 

The  white  porch  of  his  home; 
And  he  spake  to  the  noble  river 

That  rolls  by  the  towers  of  Rome. 

"Oh,  Tiber!  Father  Tiber  ! 

To  whom  the  Romans  pray, 
A  Roman's  life,  a  Roman's  arms. 

Take  thou  in  charge  this  day  ! " 


A 


So  he  spake,  and  speaking  sheathed 

The  good  sword  by  his  side, 
And  with  his  harness  on  his  back, 

Plunged  headlong  in  the  tide. 

No  sound  of  joy  or  sorrow 

Was  heard  from  either  bank; 
But  friends  and  foes  in  dumb  surprise, 
With  parted  lips  and  straining  eyes, 

Stood  gazing  where  he  sank; 
And  when  above  the  surges 

They  saw  his  crest  appear. 
All  Rome  sent  forth  a  rapturous  cry, 
And  even  the  ranks  of  Tuscany 

Could  scarce  forbear  to  cheer. 

But  fiercely  ran  the  current, 

Swollen  high  by  months  of  rain: 
And  fast  his  blood  was  flowing; 

And  he  was  sore  in  pain, 
And  heavy  with  his  armour, 

And  spent  with  changing  blows: 
And  oft  they  thought  him  sinkirig. 

But  still  again  he  rose. 

Never,  I  ween,  did  swimmer, 

In  such  an  evil  case, 
Struggle  through  such  a  raging  flood 

Safe  to  the  landing-place: 
But  his  limbs  were  borne  up  bravely 

By  the  brave  heart  within,  , 

And  our  good  Father  Tiber 

Bare  bravely  up  his  chin. 

A . Vl, 


K — -    - 

84  THE   CASKET   OK    POETICAL    GEMS. 

— > -^H*^- <r- 

"  Curse,  onr  him  !  "  quoth  false  Sextus: 

"  Will  not  the  villain  drown  ? 
But  for  this  stay,  ere  close  of  day 

We  should  have  sacked  the  town  !  " 
"  Heaven  help  him  !  "  quoth  Lars  Porsena, 

"And  bring  him  safe  to  shore; 
For  such  a  gallant  feat  of  arms 

Was  never  seen  before." 


And  now  he  feels  the  bottom; 

Now  on  dry  earth  he  stands; 
Now  round  him  throng  the  Fathers 

To  press  his  gory  hands;   . 
And  now,  with  shouts  and  clapping. 

And  noise  of  weeping  loud, 
He  enters  through  the  River-Gate 

Borne  by  the  joyous  crowd. 


They  gave  him  of  the  corn-land 

That  was  of  public  right 
As  much  as  two  strong  oxen 

Could  plough  from  morn  till  night; 
And  they  made  a  molten  image. 

And  set  it  up  on  high, 
And  there  it  stands  unto  this  day 

To  witness  if  I  lie. 


It  stands  in  the  Comitium, 

Plain  for  all  folk  to  see; 
Horatlus  in  his  harness, 

Halting  upon  one  knee: 

-  "1^ ^1 


^- 


y- 


N  7 

HORATIUS.  85 


* ►jf-:-^^^ 


And  underneath  is  written, 
In  letters  all  of  gold, 

How  valiantly  he  kept  the  bridge 
In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


And  still  his  ndme  sounds  stirring 

Unto  the  men  of  Rome, 
As  the  trumpet-blast  that  cries  to  them 

To  charge  the  Volscian  home; 
And  wives  still  pray  to  Juno 

For  boys  with  hearts  as  bold 
As  his  who  kept  the  bridge  so  well 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


And  in  the  nights  of  winter, 

AVhen  the  cold  north  winds  blow, 
And  the  long  howling  of  the  wolves 

Is  heard  amidst  the  snow; 
When  round  the  lonely  cottage 

Roars  loud  the  tempest's  din; 
And  the  good  logs  of  Algidus 

Roar  louder  yet  within; 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets. 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows; 

\J 


V 


86 


THE   CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 


•5" 


>ih:-ii^ 


When  the  goodman  mends  his  armour, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom; 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 


Ai 


I\ 


-7\ 


V- 


-ffpE-fCP^NgED^C^eg^.ile^- 


By  Hon.  Mrs.  Charles  Hobart. 


T  was  a  time  of  sadness,  and  my  heart. 
Although  it  knew  and  loved  the  better  part. 
Felt  wearied  with  the  conflict  and  the  strife, 
\^   And  all  the  needful  discipline  of  life. 


And  while  I  thought  on  these,  as  given  to  me- 
My  trial  tests  of  faith  and  love  to  be — ■■ 
It  seemed  as  if  I  never  could  be  sure 
That  faithful  to  the  end  I  should  endure. 


And  thus,  no  longer  trusting  to  His  might 
Who  says,  "  We  walk  by  faith,  and  not  by  sight," 
Doubting,  and  almost  yielding  to  despair. 
The  thought  arose — My  cross  I  cannot  bear: 


Far  heavier  its  weight  must  surely  be 
Than  those  of  others  which  I  daily  see. 
Oh  !  if  I  mi^t  another  burden  choose, 
Methinks  I  should  not  fear  my  crown  to  lose. 

(87) 


:M 


\^ 


A  solemn  silence  reigned  on  all  around — 
E'en  Nature's  voices  uttered  not  a  sound; 
The  evening  shadows  seemed  of  peace  to  tell. 
And  sleep  upon  my  weary  spirit  fell. 

A  moment's  pause — and  then  a  heavenly  light 
Beamed  full  upon  my  wondering,  raptured  sight; 
Angels  on  silvery  wings  seemed  everywhere, 
And  angels'  music  thrilled  the  balmy  air. 

Then  One,  more  fair  than  all  the  rest  to  see — 
One  to  whom  all  the  others  bowed  the  knee — 
Came  gently  to  me  as  I  trembling  lay. 
And  "  Follow  me  !  "  He  said;  "  I  am  the  Way." 

Then,  speaking  thus.  He  led  me  far  above. 
And  there,  beneath  a  canopy  of  love, 
Crosses  of  divers  shape  and  size  were  seen, 
Larger  and  smaller  than  my  own  had  been. 

And  one  there  was,  most  beauteous  to  behold, 
A  little  one,  with  jewels  set  in  gold. 
Ah  !  this,  methought,  I  can  with  comfort  wear, 
For  it  will  be  an  easy  one  to  bear: 

And  so  the  little  cross  I  quickly  took; 
But,  all  at  once,  my  frame  beneath  it  shook. 
The  sparkling  jewels  fair  were  they  to  see. 
But  far  too  heavy  was  their  weight  for  me. 

"  This  may  not  be,"  I  cried,  and  looked  again, 
To  see  if  there  was  any  here  could  ease  my  pain; 
But,  one  by  one,  I  passed  them  slowly  by. 
Till  on  a  lovely  one  I  cast  my  eye. 


J^ 


^ 


K 


/ 


THE   CHANGED   CROSS. 


89 


■>- 


^vi^ 


-e- 


Fair  flowers  around  its  sculptured  form  entwined, 
And  grace  and  beauty  seemed  in  it  combined, 
Wondering,  I  gazed;  and  still  I  wondered  more 
To  think  so  many  should  have  passed  it  o'er. 


But  oh  !  that  form  so  beautiful  to  see 
Soon  made  its  hidden  sorrows  known  to  me; 
Thorns  lay  beneath  those  flowers  and  colors  fair ! 
Sorrowing,  I  said:  "This  cross  I  may  not  bear." 


And  so  it  was  with  each  and  all  around — 
Not  one  to  suit  my  iieed  could  there  be  found; 
Weeping,  I  laid  each  heavy  burden  down, 
As  my  Guide  gently  said:  "  No  cross,  no  crown." 


\ 


\ 


^ 


^;  -         -  " 

go  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

-^ —- ^i--:-*!^ <r 

At  length,  to  Him  I  raised  my  saddened  heart: 
He  knew  its  sorrows,  bid  its  doubts  depart. 
"  Be  not  afraid,"  He  said,  "but  trust  in  me — 
My  perfect  love  shall  now  be  shown  to  thee." 

And  then,  with  lightened  eyes  and  willing  feet, 
Again  I  turned,  my  earthly  cross  to  meet, 
With  forward  footsteps,  turning  not  aside, 
Fbr  fear  some  hidden  evil  might  betide; 

And  there — in  the  prepared,  appointed  way. 
Listening  to  hear,  and  ready  to  obey — 
A  cross  I  quickly  found  of  plainest  form, 
With  only  words  of  love  inscribed  thereon. 

With  thankfulness  I  raised  it  from  the  rest. 
And  joyfully  acknowledged  it  the  best — 
The  only  one  of  all  the  many  there 
That  I  could  feel  was  good  for  me  to  bear. 

And,  while  I  thus  my  chosen  one  confess 
I  saw  a  heavenly  brightness  on  it  rest; 
And,  as  I  bent,  my  burden  to  sustain, 
I  recognized  my  own  old  cross  again. 

But  oh  !  how  different  did  it  seem  to  be 
Now  I  had  learned  its  preciousness  to  see  ! 
No  longer  could  I  unbelieving  say. 
Perhaps  another  is  a  better  way. 

Ah  no  !  henceforth  my  own  desire  shall  be. 
That  He  who  knows  me  best  should  choose  forme, 
And  so,  whate'er  His  love  sees  good  to  send, 
I'll  trust  it's  best,  because  He  knows  the  end. 


r? 


-7\ 


^ 


-^cjppE^Baj^ij^ii^eF^MegEg.Ji^^ 


By  Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander. 


/ 


Y  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave. 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab, 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave; 
And  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er, 
For  the  "  Sons  of  God  "  upturned  the  sod. 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 


That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth. 
Noiselessly  as  the  day-light 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 
''     Grows  into  the  great  sun — 

Noiselessly  as  the  spring-time 

Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves 
And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 

Open  their  thousand  leaves; 
So,  without  sound  of  music. 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

(91) !^ 


\ 


Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

'  On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyry 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot: 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 


But  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed,  and  muffled  drum, 

Follow  the  funeral  car. 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  battles  won. 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest. 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  drest — 
In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  sweet  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 


This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword; 
This,  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word; 

k ^ 


. 

6> 

— *-                                                             ^ 

c. 

^ , 

K~ 

"7 

r 

THE    BURIAL    OF    MOSES.                                        93 

► 

•P"                   »*ro*'                   V 

And  never  earth's  lahilosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen, 

On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor? 

The  hill-side  for  his  pall. 

To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

With  stars  for  tapers  tall, 

And  the  dark  rock-pines  like  tossing  plumes 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 

And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  the  grave  ! 

In  that  deep  grave  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 

Shall  break  again — most  wondrous  thought — 

Before  the  Judgment  day, 

And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around. 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 

And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  Incarnate  Son  of  God. 

0  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land  ! 

0  dark  Beth-peor  hill ! 

Speak  to  these  curious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 

God  hath  His  mysteries  of  grace, 

1 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell; 

And  hides  them  deep,  like  the  Secret  sleep 

Of  him  He  loved  so  well. 

k 

^ 

\ 

b 

.— 

— "^                                                                                         ~^ — 

« 

\*" 

' 

■ 

•Mtg0]\[6.3|e<- 


BY   SIR   WALTER   SCOTT. 


HERE  shall  the  lover  rest, 
Whom  the  Fates  sever, 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast 

Parted  for  ever  ? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die, 
Under  the  willow. 


There  through  the  summer  day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving; 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway. 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving; 
There,  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take. 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Never,  O  never. 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver. 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast. 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 


kL 


(94) 


'  There  tlirough  the  suninier  day, 
Cool  streams  are  laving. " 


'     v> 


SONG. 


95 


^^■.••^■' 


<■ 


In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattles 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 
O'er  the  false-hearted; 

His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap, 
Ere  life  be  parted. 

Shame  and  dishonor  sit 
By  his  grave  ever; 

Blessing  shall  hallow  it, — 
*    Never,  O  never. 


_M 


>v 


K- 


-Mcp[^TO^EIiIiE.3le<- 


Y  goddess  romped  at  school, 

Fetched  April's  boldest  violet; 
Her  crown  was  her  brown  hair 

With  diamonds  of  its  own  gloss  set. 

I  envied  not  the  Greek; 

Callisto,  lo,  Proserpine, 
From  all  their  ills  were  saved 

Had  Reus  and  Dis  her  beauty  seen. 

Fine  dames  forgot  their  airs. 

And  when  her  step  led  through  the  mart 
Traffic  forebore  its  greed; 

Yet  slmpleness  was  all  her  art. 

For  beauty  use  her  rule, 

Her  language,  tone,  and  gentle  ways; 
Her  grace  showed  best  in  tasks 

She  loved;  and  peace  filled  all  the  days. 

A  maid,  when  last  we  met, 

A  woman's  form  is  now  her  earthly  dress; 
O  Time  and  World,  I  pray. 

Ye  have  not  changed  her  simpleness  ! 


k. 


(96) 


NT 


Tt 


-Mc¥pE4JI05fpEl^'g^pE^^¥;{s<- 


BY   CAROLINE    E.    NORTON. 


HEN  first  thou  earnest,  gently,  shy,  and  fond, 
My  eldest  born,  first  hope,  and  dearest 
treasure. 
My  heart  received  thee  with  a  joy  beyond 

All  that  it  yet  had  felt  of  earthly  pleasure; 
Nor  thought  that  any  love  again  might  be 
So  deep  and  strong  as  that  I  felt  for  thee. 


Faithful  and  true,  with  sense  beyond  thy  years. 
And  natural  piety  that  leaned  to  heaven; 

Wrung  by  a  harsh  word  suddenly  to  tears. 
Yet  patient  to  rebuke  when  justly  given; 

Obedient,  easy  to  be  reconciled. 

And  meekly  cheerful;  such  wert  thou,  my  child  ! 


Not  willing  to  be  left — still  by  my  side. 

Haunting  my  walks.,  while  summer-day  was  dying; 
Nor  leaving  in  thy  turn,  but  pleased  to  glide 

Through  the  dark  room  where  I  was  sadly  lying; 
Or  by  the  couch  of  pain,  a  sitter  meek, 
Watch  the  dim  eye,  and  kiss  the  fevered  cheek. 

(97) 


:M 


®  V 


O  boy  !  of  such  as  thou  are  oftenest  made 
Earth's  fragile  idols;  like  a  tender  flower, 

No  strength  in  all  thy  freshness,  prone  to  fade. 
And  bending  weakly  to  the  thunder-shower; 

Still,  round  the  loved,  thy  heart  found  force  to  bind,  • 

And  clung,  like  woodbine  shaken  in  the  wind  ! 

Then  thou,  my  merry  love, — bold  in  thy  glee, 

Under  the  bough,  or  by  the  firelight  dancing. 

With  thy  sweet  temper,  and  thy  spirit  free, — 

Didst  come,  as  restless  as  a  bird's  wing  glancing, 

Full  of  a  wild  and  irrepressible  mirth. 

Like  a  young  sunbeam  to  the  gladdened  earth  ! 

Thine  was  the  shout,  the  song,  the  burst  of  joy. 

Which  sweet  from  childhood's  rosy  lip  resoundeth; 

Thine  was  the  eager  spirit  naught  could  cloy. 

And  the  glad  heart  from  which  all  grief  reboundeth; 

And  many  a  mirthful  jest  and  mock  reply 

Lurked  in  the  laughter  of  thy  dark-blue  eye. 

And  thine  was  rhany  an  art  to  win  and  bless, 

The  cold  and  stern  to  joy  and  fondness  warming; 

The  coaxing  smile,  the  frequent  soft  caress. 

The  earnest,  tearful  prayer  all  wrath  disarming ! 

Again  my  heart  a  new  affection  found, 

But  thought  that  love  with  thee  had  reached  its  bound. 

At  length  thou  camest, — thou,  the  last  and  least, 

Nicknamed  "the  Emperor"  by  thy  laughing  brothers, 

Because  a  haughty  spirit  swelled  thy  breast, 

And  thou  didst  seek  to  rule  and  sway  the  others, 

Mingling  with  every  playful  infant  wile 

A  mimic  majesty  that  made  us  smile. 


K" 


/ 


THE    mother's    heart.  99 

--> ►jfi-fj- — ^- 

And  O,  most  like  a  regal  child  wert  thou  ! 

An  eye  of  resolute  and  successful  scheming ! 
Fair  shoulders,  curling  lips,  and  dauntless  brow, 

Fit  for  the  world's  strife,  not  for  poet's  dreaming; 
And  proud  the  lifting  of  thy  stately  head. 
And  the  firm  bearing  of  thy  conscious  tread. 

Different  from  both  !  yet  each  succeeding  claim 
I,  that  all  other  love  had  been  forswearing, 

Forthwith  admitted,  equal  and  the  same; 

Nor  injured  either  by  this  love's  comparing, 

Nor  stole  a  fraction  for  the  newer  call, — 

But  in  the  mother's  heart  found  room  for  all  1 


\ 


^ 


K 


-^—A 


-McmWliE^BmiiEE.$<- 


BY   WILLIAM    MAKEPEACE    THACKERAY. 


^HERE  were  three  sailors  of  Bristol  City 
Who  took  a  boat  and  went  to  sea, 
But  first  with  beef  and  captain's  biscuits 
And  pickled  pork  they  loaded  she. 

^    There  was  gorging  Jack,  and  guzzling  Jimmy, 
"^  And  the  youngest  he  was  little  Billee; 

Now  when  they  'd  got  as  far  as  the  Equator 
They  'd  nothing  left  but  one  split  pea. 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  I  am  extremely  hungaree." 
To  gorging  Jack  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"  We  've  nothing  left,  us  must  eat  we." 

Says  gorging  Jack  to  guzzling  Jimmy, 

"With  one  another  we  should  n't  agree ! 

There  's  little  Bill,  he  's  young  and  tender. 
We  're  old  and  tough,  so  let 's  eat  he." 

"  O  Billy !  we  're  going  to  kill  and  eat  you, 

So  undo  the  button  of  your  chemie." 
When  Bill  received  this  information, 

He  used  his  pocket-handkerchie. 

(loo)  .       \ 


>L 


"  First  let  me  say  my  catechism 

Which  my  poor  mother  taught  to  me." 

"  Make  haste  !  make  haste  !  "  says  guzzling  Jimmy, 
While  Jack  pulled  out  his  snickersnee. 

Billy  went  up  the  main-top-gallant  mast, 
And  down  he  fell  on  his  bended  knee, 

He  scarce  had  come  to  the  Twelfth  Commandment 
When  he  jumps  up  —  "There  's  land  I  see  !  " 

"  Jerusalem  and  Madagascar 

And  North  and  South  Amerikee, 
There  's  the  British  flag  a-riding  at  anchor, 

With  Admiral  Napier,  K.  C.  B." 

So  when  they  got  aboard  of  the  Admiral's,  , 
He  hanged  fat  Jack  and  flogged  Jimmee, 

But  as  for  little  Bill  he  made  him 
The  Captain  of  a  Seventy-three. 


K  M 


I. 


K 


A 


-McTpE'fY^G^BeNDg.*^- 


By  J.  T.  Trowbridge. 


i'e  are  two  travelers,  Roger  and  I. 

Roger's  my  dog: — come  here,  you  scamp  ! 
Jump  for  the  gentlemen,— mind  your  eye  ! 

Over  the  table, — look  out  for  the  lamp  !  — 
The  rogue  is  growing  a  little  old; 

Five  years  we've  tramped  through  wind  and 
weather, 

And  slept  out-doors  when  nights  were  cold, 
And  ate  and  drank — and  starved  together. 

We've  learned  what  comfort  is,  I  tell  you  ! 

A  bed  on  the  floor,  a  bit  of  rosin, 
A  fire  to  thaw  our  thumbs,  (poor  fellow  ! 

The  paw  he  holds  up  there's  been  frozen,) 
Plenty  of  catgut  for  my  fiddle, 

(This  out-door  business  is  bad  for  strings,) 
Then  a  few  nice  buckwheats  hot  from  the  griddle, 

And  Roger  and  I  set  up  for  kings  ! 

No,  thank  ye,  sir, — I  never  drink; 

Roger  and  I  are  exceedingly  moral, — 
Aren't  we,  Roger  ? —  see  him  wink  !  — 

Well,  something  hot,  then, — we  won't  quarrel. 
He's  thirsty,  too, — see  him  nod  his  head  ? 

What  a  pity,  sir,  that  dogs  can't  talk  ! 
He  understands  every  word  that's  said, — 

And  he  knows  good  milk  from  water-and-chalk. 

(102) 


\ 


\ 


K" 


THE    VAGABONDS.  I03 

•$ ►jf-:-|j- ^r- 

The  truth  is,  sir,  now  I  reflect, 

I've  been  so  sadly  given  to  grog, 
I  wonder  I've  not  lost  the  respect 

(Here's  to  you,  sir!)  even  of  my  dog. 
But  he  sticks  by,  through  thick  and  thin; 

And  this  old  coat,  with  its  empty  pockets, 
And  rags  that  smell  of  tobacco  and  gin, 

He'll  follow  while  he  has  eyes  in  his  sockets. 

There  isn't  another  creature  living 

Would  do  it,  and  prove,  throilgh  every  disaster, 
So  fond,  so  faithful,  and  so  forgiving. 

To  such  a  miserable,  thankless  master  ! 
No,  sir! — see  him  wag  his  tail  and  grin  ! 

By  George  !  it  makes  my  old  eyes  water ! 
That  is,  there's  something  in  this  gin 

That  chokes  a  fellow.     But  no  matter  ! 

We'll  have  some  music,  if  you're  willing, 

And  Roger  (hem!  what  a  plague  a  cough  is,  sir!) 
Shall  march  a  little. — Start,  you  villain  ! 

Stand  straight  !  'Bout  face  !  Salute  your  officer  ! 
Put  up  that  paw  !  Dress  !  Take  your  rifle  ! 

(Some  dogs  have  arms,  you  see!)  Now  hold  your 
Cap  while  the  gentlemen  give  a  trifle. 

To  aid  a  poor  old  patriot  soldier  ! 

March  !  Halt !  Now  show  how  the  rebel  shakes, 

When  he  stands  up  to  hear  his  sentence. 
Now  tell  us  how  many  drams  it  takes 

To  honor  a  jolly  new  acquaintance. 
Five  yelps,— that's  five;  he's  mighty  knowing  ! 

The  night'f  before  us,  fill  the  glasses  !  — 
Quick,  sir  !  I'm  ill,— my  brain  is  going  !  — 

Some  brandy  ! — thank  you  ! — there  ! — it  passes  ! 


4^ 

5>  > 


-A' 


104  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

^ ►if-:-!^^ ^ 

Why  not  reform  ?    That's  easily  said; 

But  I've  gone  through  such  wretched  treatment, 
Sometimes  forgetting  the  taste  of  bread, 

And  scarce  remembering  what  meat  meant, 
That  my  poor  stomach's  past  reform; 

And  there  are  times  when,  mad  with  thinking, 
I'd  sell  out  heaven  for  something  warm 

To  prop  a  horrible  inward  sinking. 

Is  there  a  way  to  forget  to  think  ?   • 

At  your  age,  sir,  home,  fortune,  friends, 
A  dear  girl's  love, — but  I  took  to  drink; — 

The  same  old  story;  you  know  how  it  ends. 
If  you  could  have  seen  these  classic  features, — 

You  needn't  laugh,  sir;  they  were  not  then 
Such  a  burning  libel  on  God's  creatures: 

I  was  one  of  your  handsome  men  ! 

If  you  had  seen  her,  so  fair  and  young, 
Whose  head  was  happy  on  this  breast ! 

If  you  could  have  heard  the  songs  I  sung 

When  the  wine  went  round,  you  wouldn't  have  guessed 

That  ever  I,  sir,  should  be  straying 

From  door  to  door,  with  fiddle  and  dog, 

Ragged  and  penniless,  and  playing 

To  you  to-night  for  a  glass  of  grog  ! 

She's  married  since, — a  parson's  wife  : 

'Twas  better  for  her  that  we  should  part, — 
Better  the  soberest,  prosiest  life 

Than  a  blasted  home  and  a  broken  heart. 
I  have  seen  her  ?  Once  :  I  was  weak  and  spent 

On  the  dusty  road,  a  carriage  stopped  : 
But  little  she  dreamed,  as  on  she  went, 

Who  kissed  the  coin  that  her  fingers  dropped  ! 


-M 


THE    VAGABONDS.  I05 


You've  set  me  talking,  sir  ;  I'm  sorry  ; 

It  makes  me  wild  to  think  of  the  change  ! 
What  do  you  care  for  a  beggar's  story  ? 

Is  it  amusing  ?  you  find  it  strange. 
I  had  a  mother  so  proud  of  me  ! 

'Twas  well  she  died  before Do  you  know 

If  the  happy  spirits  in  heaven  can  see 

The  ruin  and  wretchedness  here  below? 

Another  glass,  and  strong,  to  deaden 

This  pain;  then  Roger  and  I  will  start 
I  wonder,  has  he  such  a  lumpish,  leaden, 

Aching  thing,  in  place  of  a  heart  ? 
He  is  sad  sometimes,  and  would  weep,  if  he  could, 

No  doubt,  remembering  things  that  were, — 
A  virtuous  kennel,  with  plenty  of  food, 

And  himself  a  sober,  respectable  cur. 

I'm  better  now;  that  glass  was  warming, — 

You  rascal  !  limber  your  lazy  feet ! 
We  must  be  fiddling  and  performing 

For  supper  and  bed,  or  starve  in  the  street. — 
Not  a  very  gay  life  to  lead,  you  think  ? 

But  soon  we  shall  go  where  lodgings  are  free, 
And  the  sleepers  need  neither  victuals  nor  drink; — 

The  sooner,  the  better  for  Roger  and  me  ! 


\/ -^  ^ 


V 


K 


7f 


">3lciFpE4-P^RTIN6^P@n^.3le<- 


BY   EDWARD   POLLOCK. 


[The  following  exquisite  poem  v\  as  written  by  the  late  Edward  Pollock, 
the  gifted  Califomian  poet,  on  the  6th  January,  1857,  and  has  never  been 
published.  It  was  given  by  the  poet  to  a  friend  who  was  about  to  depart 
on  a  steamer  for  Oregon,  Pollock  saying,  "Take  this;  you  may  perhaps 
read  and  appreciate  the  sentiment  long  after  I  have  ceased  to  be  among 
the  living."] 


HERE'S  something  in  the  "parting  hour" 

Will  chill  the  warmest  heart — 
Yet  kindred,  comrades,  lovers,  friends, 

Are  fated  all  to  part; 
But  this  I've  seen — and  many  a  page 

Has  pressed  it  on  my  mind — 
The  one  who  goes  is  happier 

Than  those  he  leaves  behind. 


No  matter  what  the  journey  be, 

Adventurous,  dangerous,  far. 
To  the  wild  deep  or  black  frontier, 

To  solitude  or  war — 
Still  something  cheers  the  heart  that  dares 

In  all  of  human  kind. 
And  they  who  go  are  happier 

Than  those  they  leave  behind. 

(106) 


71 

THE    PARTING    HOUR.  I07 

■^ -if.-ii-' ^r- 

The  bride  goes  to  the  bridegroom's  home 

With  doubtings  and  with  tears. 
But  does  not  hope  her  rainbow  spread 

Across  her  cloudy  fears  ? 
Alas !  the  mother  who  remains, 

What  comfort  can  she  find, 
But  this — the  gone  is  happier 

Than  one  she  leaves  behind. 

Have  you  a  friend — a  comrade  dear — 

An  old  and  valued  friend  ? 
Be  sure  your  term  of  sweet  concourse 

At  length  will  have  an  end. 
And  when  you  part — as  part  you  will — 

O  take  it  not  unkind 
If  he  who  goes  is  happier 

Than  you  he  leaves  behind! 

God  wills  it  so — and  so  it  is; 

The  pilgrims  on  their  way. 
Though  weak  and  worn,  more  cheerful  are 

Than  all  the  rest  who  stay; 
And  when,  at  last,  poor,  man,  subdued, 

Lies  down  to  death  resigned, 
May  he  not  still  be  happier  far 

Than  those  he  leaves  behind  ? 


>^ 


"•         oPv 


-7\ 


-McfpE^@^IEp;ie<- 


FROM   THE    "BRIDE   OF  ABYDOS." 


BY    BYRON, 


U^= 


NOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their 
clime, 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the 
turtle. 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine. 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine: 
Where  the  light  wings  of  Zephyr,  oppressed  with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom  ! 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute. 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
'T  is  the  clime  of  the  East;  't  is  the  land  of  the  Sun, — 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 
O,  wild  as  the  accents  of  lover's  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  wl^ich  they  bear  and  the  tales  which  they  tell ! 

(io8) 


:^ 


"  Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine. 


■^ 


■McCa^EEW-t-Ma?'F-t-]V[0iF-)-^I]«6-l-iF0-]\[IGPT*<' 


NGLAND'S  sun  was  slowly  setting 

O'er  the  hills  so  far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty 

At  the  close  of  one  sad  day; 
And  the  last  rays  kiss'd  the  forehead 
Of  a  man  and  maiden  fair, 
He  with  step  so  slow  and  weakened, 

She  with  sunny,  floating  hair; 
He  with  sad  bowed  head,  and  thoughtful, 

She  with  lips  so  cold  and  white, 
Struggling  to  keep  back  the  murmur, 
"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night." 


"Sexton/'  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered. 

Pointing  to  the  prison  old. 
With  its  walls  so  dark  and  gloomy, — 

Walls  so  dark,  and  damp,  and  cold,- 
"  I've  a  lover  in  that  prison, 

Doomed  this  very  night  to  die, 
At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew, 

And  no  earthly  help  is  nigh. 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset," 

And  her  face  grew  strangely  white, 
As  she  spoke  in  husky  whispers, 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night." 

(109) 


N ]        :  y] 

no  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 


>ih:-i^-' 


"  Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  Sexton — 

Every  word  pierced  her  young  heart 
Like  a  thousand  gleaming  arrows — 

Like  a  deadly  poisoned  dart; 
"  Long,  long  years  I've  rung  the  Curfew 

From  that  gloomy  shadowed  tower; 
Every  evening,  just  at  sunset, 

It  has  told  the  twilight  hour; 
I  have  done  my  duty  ever, 

Tried  to  do  it  just  and  right, 
Now  I'm  old,  I  will  not  miss  it; 

Girl,  the  Curfew  rings  to-night !  " 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features, 

Stern  and  white  her  thoughtful  brow, 
And  within  her  heart's  deep  centre, 

Bessie  made  a  solemn  vow; 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges 

Read,  without  a  tear  or  sigh, 
"  At  the  ringing  of  the  Curfew — 

Basil  Underwood  musi  die'' 
And  her  breath  came  fast  and  faster. 

And  her  eyes  grew  large  and  bright — 
One  low  murmur,  scarcely  spoken — 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night !" 

She  with  light  step  bounded  forward, 
Sprang  within  the  old  church  door, 

Left  the  old  man  coming  slowly. 
Paths  he'd  often  trod  before. 

Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden. 
But  with  cheek  and  brow  aglow. 


« ^ 


Staggered  up  the  gloomy  tower, 

Where  the  bell  svvung  to  and  fro: 

Then  she  climbed  the  slimy  ladder, 
Dark,  without  one  ray  of  light, 

Upward  still,  her  pale  lips  saying:   ■ 
"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 


She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder. 

O'er  her  hangs  the  great  dark  bell. 
And  the  awful  gloom  beneath  her, 

Like  the  pathway  down  to  hell; 
See,  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging, 

'Tis  the  hour  of  Curfew  now — 
And  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom. 

Stopped  her  breath  and  paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?     No,  never  ! 

Her  eyes  flash  with  sudden  light, 
As  she  springs  and  grasps  it  firmly — 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night !  " 

Out  she  swung,  far  out,  the  city 

Seemed  a  tiny  speck  below; 
There,  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended, 

As  the  bell  swung  to  and  fro; 
And  the  half-deaf  Sexton  ringing 

(Years  he  had  not  heard  the  bell,) 
And  he  thought  the  twilight  Curfew 

Rang  young  Basil's  funeral  knell; 
Still  the  maiden  clinging  firmly. 

Cheek  and  brow  so  pale  and  white, 
Stilled  her  frightened  heart's  wild  beating — 

"Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night" 


A 


'I 


K — 

112  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

-^ ►jf-:«|^- <- 

It  was  o'er — the  bell  ceased  swaying, 

And  the  maiden  stepped  once  more 
Firmly  on  the  damp  old  ladder, 

Where  for  hundred  years  before 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted; 

And  what  she  this  night  had  done, 
Should  be  told  in  long  years  after — 

As  the  rays  of  setting  sun 
Light  the  sky  with  mellow  beauty, 

Aged  sires  with  heads  of  white, 
Tell  the  children  why  the  Curfew 

Did  not  ring  that  one  sad  night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell; 

Bessie  saw  him,  and  her  brow. 
Lately  white  with  sickening  terror. 

Glows  with  suddea  beauty  now; 
At  his  feet  she  told  her  story, 

Showed  her  hands  all  bruised  and  torn; 
And  her  sweet  young  face  so  haggard. 

With  a  look  so  sad  and  worn, 
Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity — ' 

Lit  his  eyes  with  misty  light; 
"  Go,  your  lover  lives  !  "  cried  Cromwell; 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 


=X 


rv 


■Tf" 


■McfpE^l^;«YEN.3}e<- 


By  Edgar  Allan  Poe. 


^NCE  upon  a  midnight  dreary,  while  I  pondered, 

weak  and  weary, 
Over  many  a  quaint   and   curious   volume  of 

forgotten  lore, — 
While  I  nodded,  nearly  napping,  suddenly  there 
came  a  tapping. 
As  of  some  one  gently  rapping,  rapping  at  my  chamber-door, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor,"  I  mutter'd,  "  tapping  at  my  chamber- 
door — 

Only  this,  and  nothing  more." 

Ah,  distinctly  I  remember,  it  was  in  the  bleak  December, 
And  each  separate  dying  ember  wrought  its  ghost  upon  the 

floor. 
Eagerly  I  wished  the  morrow;  vainly  I  had  sought  to  borrow 
From  my  books  surcease  of  sorrow — sorrow  for  the  lost 
Lenore, — 
'    For  the  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name 
Lenore, — 

Nameless  here  forevermore. 

And  the  silken,  sad,  tncertain  rustling  of  each  purple  curtain, 
Thrilled   me, — filled   me   with   fantastic  terrors   never   felt 
before; 


kl 


("3) 


-^^ 


114  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

-J- ^ih'--i> ^ 

So  that  now,  to  still  the  beating  of  m^  heart,  I  stood  repeating, 
"  'Tis  some  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door, — 
Some  late  visitor  entreating  entrance  at  my  chamber-door; 
That  it  is,  and  nothing  more." 

Presently  my  soul  grew  stronger:  hesitating  then  no  longen 
"Sir,"  said  I,  "or  Madam,  truly  your  forgiveness  I  implore; 
But  the  fact  is,  I  was  napping,  and  so  gently  you  came  rapping, 
And  so  faintly  you  came  tapping,  tapping  at  my  chamber- 
door, 
That  I  scarce  was  sure  I  heard  you" — here  I  opened  wide  the 
door: 

Darkness  there,  and  nothing  more. 

Deep  into  that  darkness  peering,  long  I  stood  there,  wonder- 
ing, fearing. 

Doubting,  dreaming  dreams  no  mortals  ever  dared  to  dream 
before; 

But  the  silence  was  unbroken,  and  the  stillness  gave  no 
token, 

And  the  only  word  there  spoken  was  the  whispered  word, 
"  Lenore  !  " 

This  /  whispered,  and  an  echo  murmured  back  the  word, 
"  Lenore  ! " 

Merely  this,  and  nothing  more. 

Back  into  the  chamber  turning,  all  my  soul  within  me 
burning. 

Soon  again  I  heard  a  tapping,  something  louder  than  before. 

"  Surely,"  said  I,  "  surely  that  is  something  at  my  window- 
lattice; 

Let  me  see  then  what  thereat  is  and  this  mystery  explore, — 

Let  my  heart  be  still  a  moment,  and  this  mystery  explore; — 
'Tis  the  wind,  and  nothing  more." 


/ 

THE    RAVEN.  II5 

-e. — ^^^^4^^ ^- 

Open  here  I  flung  the  shutter,  when,  with  many  a  flirt  and 
flutter, 

In  there  stepped  a  stately  raven  of  the  saintly  days  of  yore. 

Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he;  not  a  minute  stopped  or 
stayed  he; 

But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber- 
door, — 

Perched  upon  a  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber- door — 
Perched,  and  sat,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  this  ebony  bird  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling. 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
"  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,"  I  said,  "  art 

sure  no  raven; 
Ghastly,  grim,  and  ancient  raven,  wandering  from  the  nightly 

shore. 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's  Plutonian 

shore  ?" 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

Much  I  marveled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so 
plainly. 

Though  its  answer  little  meaning,  little  relevancy  bore; 

For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 

Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber- 
door, 

Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber- 
door 

With  such  name  as  "  Nevermore  !  " 

But  the  raven,  sitting  lonely  on  the  placid  bust,  spoke  only 
That  one  word,  as  if  his  soul  in  that  one  word  he  did  out- 
pour, 

^1 


Il6  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 


^ <":-4^^ 


Nothing  further  then  he   uttered;    not   a   feather  then  he 

fluttered — 
Till  I  scarcely  more  than   muttered,  "  Other  friends  have 

flown  before, 
On  the  morrow  /le  will  leave  me,  as  my  hopes  have  flown 

before." 

Then  the  bird  said,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

Startled  at  the  stillness,  broken  by  reply  so  aptly  spoken, 
"  Doubtless,"  said  I, "  what  it  utters  is  its  only  stock  and 

store, 
Caught  from  some  unhappy  master,  whom  unmerciful  disaster 
FoUow'd  fast  and  foUow'd  faster,  till  his  songs  one  burden 

bore. 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  hope  that  melancholy  burden  bore, 
Of — '  Never — nevermore  ! '  " 

But  the  raven  still  beguiling  all  my  sad  soul  into  smiling. 
Straight  I  wheeled  a  cushioned  seat  in  front  of  bird  and  bust 

and  door. 
Then,  upon  the  velvet  sinking,  I  betook  myself  to  linking 
Fancy  unto  fancy,  thinking  what  this  ominous  bird  of  yore — 
What  this  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous  bird 

of  yore 

Meant  in  croaking  "  Nevermore  !  " 

This  I  sat  engaged  in  guessing,  but  no  syllable  expressing 
To  the  fowl  whose  fiery  eyes  now  burn'd  into  my  bosom's 

core; 
This  and  more  I  sat  divining,  with  my  head  at  ease  reclining 
On  the  cushion's  velvet  lining  that  the  lamp-light  gloated 

o'er. 

But  whose  velvet  violet  lining  with  the  lamp-light  gloating 
o'er 

S^e  shall  press — ah  !  nevermore  ! 


JSJ 


e ^ 


Then  methought   the  air   grew    denser,  perfumed  from  an 

unseen  censer 
Swung  by  seraphim,  whose  foot-falls  tinkled  on  the  tufted 

floor. 
"  Wretch,"  I  cried,  "  thy  God  hath  lent  thee — by  these  angels 

he  hath  sent  thee 
Respite — respite  and  nepenthe  from  thy  memories  of  Lenore! 
Quaff,  oh,  quaff  this   kind  nepenthe,  and   forget   this  lost 

Lenore  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

"  Prophet !  "  said  I,  "  thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil  ! 
Whether  tempter  sent,  or  whether  tempest  tossed  thee  here 

ashore. 
Desolate,  yet  all  undaunted,  on  this  desert  land  enchanted — 
On  this  home  by  horror  haunted — tell  me  truly,  I  implore, — 
Is  there — is  there  balm  in  Gilead  ?  —  tell  me — tell  me,  I  im- 
plore !  " 
Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 


"Prophet!  "  said  I,  "thing  of  evil! — prophet  still,  if  bird 

or  devil  ! 
By  that  heaven  that  bends  above  us,  by  that  God  we  both 

adore. 
Tell  this   soul,   with  sorrow  laden,   if,   within  the  distant 

Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a   sainted   maiden,  whom   the   angels  name 

Lenore; 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden,  whom  the  angels  name 

Lenope  !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore !  " 


A^ 


\ 


\ 


■Tf 


ii8 


> 


< 


THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

^^:-ii- 


"Be   that   word   our   sign   of   parting,  bird   or   fiend!"   I 

shrieked,  upstarting, — 
"Get  thee  back  into  the  tempest  and  the  night's  Plutonian 

shore! 
Leave  no  black  plume  as  a  token  of  that  lie  thy  soul  hath 

spoken! 
Leave  my  loneliness   unbroken! — quit   the  bust  above  my 

door! 
Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from 

off-  my  door !  " 

Quoth  the  raven,  "  Nevermore  !  " 

And  the  raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas,  just  above  my  chamber-door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is 

dreaming, 
And  the  lamp-light  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow 

on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the 

floor 

Shall  be  lifted — nevermore  ! 


.^ 


•V 


K 


m  P]RETOY,BaDDI]\I6,  B^E;«5^pi]\[6  FIi6WE^ 


By  Winthrop  Mackworth  Praed. 


Y  pretty,  budding,  breathing  flower, 

Methinks,  if  I  to-morrow 
Could  manage,  just  for  l^^lf  an  hour, 

Sir  Joshua's  brush  to  borrow, 
I  might  immortalize  a  few 

Of  all  the  myriad  graces 
Which  Time,  while  yet  they  all  are  new, 

With  newer  still  replaces. 

I'd  paint,  my  child,  your  deep  blue  eyes, 

The  quick  and  earnest  flashes; 
I'd  paint  the  fringe  that  round  them  lies, 
The  fringe  of  long  dark  lashes. 
I'd  draw  with  most  fastidious  care, 
One  eyebrow,  then  the  other; 
And  that  fair  forehead,  broad  and  fair, — 
The  forehead  of  your  mother. 


("9) 


:^ 


r- 


THE   CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 


►jf-:-fj^ 


I'd  oft  retouch  the  dimpled  cheek 

Where  health  in  sunshine  dances; 
And  oft  the  pouting  lips,  where  speak 

A  thousand  voiceless  fancies; 
And  the  soft  neck  would  keep  me  long, 

The  neck,  more  smooth  and  snowy 
Than  ever  yet  in  schoolboy's  song 

Had  Caroline  and  Chloe. 


Nor  less  on.  those  twin  rounded  arms 

My  new-found  skill  would  linger ; 
Nor  less  upon  the  rosy  charms 

Of  every  tiny  finger  ; 
Nor  slight  the  small  feet,  little  one. 

So  prematurely  clever 
That,  though  they  neither  walk  nor  run, 

I  think  they'd  jump  for  ever. 

But  then  your  odd,  endearing  ways, — 

What  study  e'er  could  catch  them  ? 
Your  aimless  gestures,  aimless  plays— 

What  canvas  e'er  could  match  them  ? 
Your  lively  leap  of  merriment, 

Your  murmur  of  petition, 
Your  serious  silence  of  content. 

Your  laugh  of  recognition. 

Here  were  a  puzzling  toil,  indeed. 
For  Art's  most  fine  creations  !  — 

Grow  on,  sweet  baby;  we  will  need, 
To  notice  your  transformations. 


No  picture  of  your  form  or  face, 
Your  waking  or  your  sleeping, 

But  that  which  Love  shall  daily  trace, 
And  trust  to  Memory's  keeping. 

Hereafter,  when  revolving  years 

Have  made  you  tall  and  twenty,  \ 
And  brought  you  blended  hopes  and  fears. 

And  sighs  and  slaves  in  plenty, 
May  those  who  watch  oiir  little  saint 

Among  her  tasks  and  duties, 
Feel  all  her  virtues  hard  to  paint, 

As  we  now  deem  her  beauties. 


\ 


>f- 


K 


~A 


^c3FpE-:W^TE]^^TP^T^P^?4P^?gED.3ie<- 


J^ISTEN  to  the  water-mill, 

Through  the  live-long  day, 
How  the  clanking  of  the  wheels 

Wears  the  hours  away  ! 
Languidly  the  autumn  wind 

Stirs  the  greenwood  leaves; 
From  the  fields  the  reapers  sing, 

Binding  up  the  sheaves, 
And  a  proverb  haunts  my  mind, 

As  a  spell  is  cast: 
"The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 


Take  the  lesson  to  thyself, 

Living  heart  and  true; 
Golden  years  are  fleeting  by, 

Youth  is  passing  too; 
Learn  to  make  the  most  of  life, 

Lose  no  happy  day, 
Time  will  never  bring  thee  back 

Chances  swept  away. 
Leave  no  tender  word  unsaid; 

Love  while  life  shall  last — 
"  The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 


(122) 


, 

. 

\ 

\ 

■i 

^ 

-^ 

_5) 

^^ 

6| 

\ 

/ 

p 

\ 

THE   WATER   THAT   HAS    PASSED. 

123 
^ 

» 

-^                        **(;'..'=)*' 

^^ 

Work  while  yet  the  daylight  shines, 

Man  of  strength  and  will; 

Never  does  the  streamlet  glide 

Useless  by  the  mill. 

Wait  not  until  to-morrow's  sun 

' 

Beams  upon  the  way; 

All  that  thou  canst  call  thy  own 

Lies  in  thy  to-day. 

Power,  intellect,  and  health, 

May  not,  cannot  last; 

"  The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 

Oh,  the  wasted  hours  of  life 

That  have  drifted  by ; 

Oh,  the  good  we  might  have  done, 

Lost  without  a  sigh  ; 

Love  that  we  might  once  have  saved 

By  a  single  word  ; 

Thoughts  conceived,  but  never  penned. 

Perishing  unheard. 

' 

Take  the  proverb  to  thine  heart, 

Take  !  oh,  hold  it  fast  !— 

"The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 

& 

/ 

^ 

V 

Is 

•^ 

to 

— »- 

~^ — 

c 

> 

• 

■ 

k 

r 

K 


"Tf 


•McP0^gEggI0N.2l^ 


BY    BAYARU   TAYLOR. 


T  was  our  wedding  day 
A  month  ago,  dear  heart,  I  hear  you  say. 
If  months,  or  years,  or  ages  since  have  passed, 
I  know  not:  I  have  ceased  to  question  Time. 
I  only  know  that  once  there  pealed  a  chime 
Of  joyous  bells,  and  then  I  held  you  fast, 

And  all  stood  back,  and  none  my  right  denied, 

And  forth  we  walked:  the  world  was  free  and  wide 

Before  us.     Since  that  day 

I  count  my  life:  the  Past  is  washed  away. 


II. 

It  was  no  dream,  that  vow: 

It  was  the  voice  that  woke  me  from  a  dream, — 

A  happy  dream,  I  think;  but  I  am  waking  now. 

And  drink  the  splendor  of  a  sun  supreme 

That  turns  the  mist  of  former  tears  to  gold. 

Within  these  arms  I  hold 

The  fleeting  promise,  chased  so  long  in  vain: 

Ah,  weary  bird  !  thou  wilt  not  fly  again: 

Thy  wings  are  clipped,  thou  canst  no  more  depart, — 

Thy  nest  is  builded  in  my  heart. 

(124) 


V 


A 


\ 


^ 


~A 


^milWW:^ 


FROM    "THE   WINTER   MORNING    WALK." 


BY    WILLIAM    COWPER. 


IS  morninj?;  and  the  sun,  with  ruddy  orb 
Ascending,  fires  the  horizon;  while  the  clouds, 
That  crowd  away  before  the  driving  wind. 
More  ardent  as  the  disk  emerges  more, 
Resemble  most  some  city  in  a  blaze, 
Seen  through  the  leafless  wood.     His  slanting  ray 

Slides  ineffectual  down  the  snowy  vale, 

And,  tingeing  all  with  his  own  rosy  hue, 

From  every  herb  and  every  spiry  blade 

Stretches  a  length  of  shadow  o'er  the  field. 

Mine,  spindling  into  longitude  immense. 

In  spite  of  gravity,  and  sage  remark 

That  I  myself  am  but  a  fleeting  shade. 

Provokes  me  to  a  smile.     With  eye  askance 

I  view  the  muscular  proportioned  limb 

Transformed  to  a  lean  shank.     The  shapeless  pair, 

As  they  designed  to  mock  me,  at  my  side 

Take  step  for  step;  and,  as  I  near  approach 

The  cottage,  walk  along  the  plastered  wall. 

Preposterous  sight !  the  legs  without  the  man. 

(127) 


128  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

-> -:h:-i-> <■ 

The  verdure  of  the  plain  lies  buried  deep 
Beneath  the  dazzling  deluge;  and  the  bents. 
And  coarser  grass,  upspearing  o'er  the  rest, 
Of  late  unsightly  and  unseen,  now  shine 
Conspicuous,  and  in  bright  apparel  clad. 
And,  fledged  with  icy  feathers,  nod  superb. 
The  cattle  mourn  in  corners,  where  the  fence 
Screens  them,  and  seem  half  petrified  to  sleep 
In  unrecumbent  sadness.     There  they  wait 
Their  wonted  fodder;  not,  like  hungry  man, 
Fretful  if  unsupplied;  but  silent,  meek. 
And,  patient  of  the  slow-paced  swain's  delay. 
He  from  the  stack  carves  out  the  accustomed  load, 
Deep  plunging,  and  again  deep  plunging  oft. 
His  broad  keen  knife  into  the  solid  mass: 
Smooth  as  a  wall  the  upright  remnant  stands, 
With  such  undeviating  and  even  force 
He  severs  it  away:  no  needless  care 
Lest  storms  should  overset  the  leaning  pile 
Deciduous,  or  its  own  unbalanced  weight. 
Forth  goes  the  woodman,  leaving  unconcerned 
The  cheerful  haunts  of  man,  to  wield  the  axe 
And  drive  the  wedge  in  yonder  forest  drear. 
From  morn  to  eve  his  solitary  task. 
Shaggy  and  lean  and  shrewd  with  pointed  ears, 
And  tail  cropped  short,  half  lurcher  and  half  cur, 
His  dog  attends  him.     Close  behind  his  heel 
Now  creeps  he  slow;  and  now,  with  many  a  frisk 
Wide-scampering,  snatches  up  the  drifted  snow 
With  ivory  teeth,  or  ploughs  it  with  his  snout; 
Then  shakes  his  powdered  coat,  and  barks  for  joy. 

Now  from  the  roost,  or  from  the  neighboring  pile. 


/ 


— a  \ 


"  There  they  wait  their  wonted  fodder." 


^^ 


Where,  diligent  to  catch  the  first  faint  gleam 

Of  smiling  day,  they  gossiped  side  by  side. 

Come  trooping  at  the  housewife's  well-known  call 

The  feathered  tribes  domestic.     Half  on  wing. 

And  half  on  foot,  they  brush  the  fleecy  flood, 

Conscious  and  fearful  of  too  deep  a  plunge. 

The  sparrows  peep,  and  quit  the  sheltering  eaves 

To  seize  the  fair  occasion.     Well  they  eye 

The  scattered  grain,  and  thievishly  resolved 

To  escape  the  impending  famine,  often  scared 

As  oft  to  return,  a  pert  voracious  kind. 

Clean  riddance  quickly  made,  one  only  care 

Remains  to  each,  the  search  of  sunny  nook, 

Or  shed  impervious  to  the  blast.    Resigned 

To  sad  necessity,  the  cock  foregoes 

His  wonted  strut,  and,  wading  at  their  head 

With  well-considered  steps,  seems  to  resent 

His  altered  gait  and  stateliness  retrenched. 

How  find  the  myriads,  that  in  summer  cheer 

The  hills  and  valleys  with  their  ceaseless  songs, 

Due  sustenance,  or  where  subsist  they  now  ? 

Earth  yields  them  naught;  the  imprisoned  worm  is  safe 

Beneath  the  frozen  clod;  all  seeds  of  herbs 

Lie  covered  close;  and  berry-bearing  thorns, 

That  feed  the  thrush  (whatever  some  suppose), 

Afford  the  smaller  minstrels  no  supply. 

The  long  protracted  rigor  of  the  year 

Thins  all  their  numerous  flocks.     In  chinks  and  holes 

Ten  thousand  seek  an  unmolested  end. 

An  instinct  prompts;  self-buried  ere  they  die. 


k — H 


-5-3lcKIgg^l!lE^50F¥IiY.*<- 


Da  me  basia. — Catullus. 


BY  JOHN    GODFREY    SAXE. 


ISS  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low, — 
Malice  has  ever  a  vigilant  ear, 
What  if  Malice  were  lurking  near  ? 
Kiss  me,  dear  ! 
Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 


II. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low, — 
Envy  too  has  a  watchful  ear: 
What  if  Envy  should  chance  to  hear? 
Kiss  me,  dear  ! 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 

III. 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low; 
Trust  me,  darling,  the  time  is  near 
When~  lovers  may  love  with  never  a  feax,- 
Kiss  me,  dear  ! 

Kiss  me  softly  and  speak  to  me  low. 


V. 


-i^ 


(130) 


A^ 


A    W]SH. 

'ih'Ai-' 

Around  my  ivied  porch. shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given. 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


135 


..-^^ 


,^ 


M 


K 


^cjSpE-Mg-ffie^^^F^I^.Jle^- 


BY   HARTLEY   COLERIDGE. 


HE  is  not  fair  to  outward  view, 
As  many  maidens  be; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 
Until  she  smiled  on  me: 
O,  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, — 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold; 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply; 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold, 

The  love-light  in  her  eye: 
Her  very  frowns  are  better  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are ! 


VL 


-t 


(136) 


\ 


Q ^ 


K" 


A 


-McTpE^mTfliE-fJIIIiMNE^.*^ 


BY   ROBERT    BUCHANAN. 


Y  girl  hath  violet  eyes  and  yellow  hair, 
A  soft  hand,  like  a  lady's,  small  and  fair, 
A   sweet   face   pouting  in  a  white  straw 
bonnet, 
>^5^  A  tiny  foot,  and  little  boot  upon  it; 
And  all  her  finery  to  charm  beholders 
Is  the  gray  shawl  drawn  tight  around  her 

shoulders, 
The  plain  stuff-gown  and  collar  white  as 
snow, 

And  sweet  red  petticoat  that  peeps  below. 
But  gladly  in  the  busy  town  goes  she, 
Summer  and  winter,  fearing  nobodie; 
She  pats  the  pavement  with  her  fairy  feet. 
With  fearless  eyes  she  charms  the  crowded  street; 
And  in  her  pockets  lie,  in  lieu  of  gold, 
A  lucky  sixpence  and  a  thimble  old. 


1^ 


We  lodged  in  the  same  house  a-  year  ago: 
She  on  the  topmost  floor,  I  just  below,— 
She,  a  poor  milliner,  content  and  wise, 
I,  a  poor  city  clerk,  with  hopes  to  rise; 

(137) 


And,  long  ere  we  were  friends,  I  learnt  to  love 

The  little  angel  on  the  floor  above. 

For,  every  morn,  ere  from  my  bed  I  stirred. 

Her  chamber  door  would  open,  and  I  heard, — 

And  listened,  blushing  to, her  coming  down, 

And  palpitated  with  her  rustling  gown. 

And  tingled  while  her  foot  went  downward  slow, 

Creaked  like  a  cricket,  passed,  and  died  below; 

Then  peeping  from  the  window,  pleased  and  sly, 

I  saw  the  pretty  shining  face  go  by. 

Healthy  and  rosy,  fresh  from  slumber  sweet, — 

A  sunbeam  in  the  quiet  morning  street. 

And  every  night,  when  in  from  work  she  tript, 
Red  to  the  ears  I  from  my  chamber  slipt. 
That  I  might  hear  upon  the  narrow  stair 
Her  low  "  Good  evening,"  as  she  passed  me  there.' 
And  when  her  door  was  closed,  below  sat  I, 
And  hearkened  stilly  as  she  stirred  on  high, — 
Watched  the  red  firelight  shadows  in  the  room, 
Fashioned  her  face  before  me  in  the  gloom, 
And  heard  her  close  the  window,  lock  the  door, 
Moving  about  more  lightly  than  before. 
And  thought,  "  She  is  undressing  now  !  "  and  O, 
My  cheeks  were  hot,  my  heart  was  in  a  glow  ! 
And  I  made  pictures  of  her, — standing  bright 
Before  the  looking-glass  in  bed-gown  white. 
Unbinding  in  a  knot  her  yellow  hair. 
Then  kneeling  timidly  to  say  a  prayer; 
Till,  last,  the  floer  creaked  softly  overhead, 
'Neath  bare  feet  tripping  to  the  little  bed, — 
And  all  was  hushed.     Yet  still  I  hearkened  on, 
Till  the  faint  sounds  about  the  streets  were  gone; 


■7 


^ 


/ 


THE    LITTLE    MILLINER. 


139 


^- 


^Jfvi:^ 


■<r 


And  saw  her  slumbering  with  lips  apart, 

One  little  hand  upon  her  little  heart, 

The  other  pillowing  a  face  that  smiled 

In  slumber  like  the  slumber  of  a  child. 

The  bright  hair  shining  round  the  small  white  ear, 

The  soft  breath  stealing  visible  and  clear. 

And  mixing  with  the  moon's,  whose  frosty  gleam 

Made  round  her  rest  a  vaporous  light  of  dream. 


How  free  she  wandered  in  the  wicked  place, 
Protected  only  by  her  gentle  face  ! 
She  saw  bad  things — how  could  she  choose  but  see  ? 
She  heard  of  wantonness  and  misery; 
The  city  closed  around  her  night  and  day, 
But  lightly,  happily,  she  went  her  way. 
Nothing  of  evil  that  she  saw  or  heard 
Could  touch  a  heart  so  innocently  stirred,^— 
By  simple  hopes  that  cheered  it  through  the  storm, 
And  little  flutterings  that  kept  it  warm. 
No  power  had  she  to  reason  out  her  needs. 
To  give  the  whence  and  wherefore  of  her  deeds; 
But  she  was  good  and  pure  amid  the  strife. 
By  virtue  of  the  joy  that  was  her  life. 
Here,  where  a  thousand  spirits  daily  fall. 
Where  heart  and  soul  and  senses  turn  to  gall. 
She  floated,  pure  as  innocence  could  be. 
Like  a  small  sea-bird  on  a  stormy  sea. 
Which  breasts  the  billows,  wafted  to  and  fro. 
Fearless,  uninjured,  while  the  strong  winds  blow, 
While  the  clouds  gather,  and  the  waters  roar. 
And  mighty  ships  are  broken  on  the  shore. 


:M 


■s>\ 


'Twas  when  the  spring  was  coming,  when  the  snow 
Had  melted,  and  fresh  winds  began  to  blow, 
And  girls  were  selling  violets  in  the  town. 
That  suddenly  a  fever  struck  me  down. 
The  world  was  changed,  the  sense  of  life  was  pained, 
And  nothing  but  a  shadow -land  remained; 
Death  came  in  a  dark  mist  and  looked  at  me, 
I  fe!t  his  breathing,  though  I  could  not  see, 
But  heavily  I  lay  and  did  not  stir, 
And  had  strange  images  and  dreams  of  her. 
Then  came  a  vacancy:  with  feeble  breath 
I  shivered  under  the  cold  touch  of  Death, 
And  swooned  among  strange  visions  of  the  dead. 
When  a  voice  called  from  heaven,  and  he  fled; 
And  suddenly  I  wakened,  as  it  seemed 
From  a  deep  sleep  wherein  I  had  not  dreamed. 


And  it  was  night,  and  I  could  see  and  hear, 
And  I  was  in  the  room  I  held  so  dear. 
And  unaware,  stretched  out  upon  my  bed, 
I  hearkened  for  a  footstep  overhead. 


But  all  was  hushed.     I  looked  around  the  room, 
And  slowly  made  out  shapes  amid  the  gloom. 
The  wall  was  reddened  by  a  rosy  light, 
A  faint  fire  flickered,  and  I  knew  't  was  night. 
Because  below  there  was  a  sound  of  feet 
Dying  away  along  the  quiet  street, — 
When,  turning  my  pale  face  and  sighing  low, 
I  saw  a  vision  in  the  quiet  glow: 
A  little  figure,  in  a  cotton  gown. 
Looking  upon  the  fire  and  stooping  down, 


A^ 


Her  side  to  me,  her  face  illumined,  she  eyed 
Two  chestnuts  burning  slowly,  side  by  side, — 
Her  lips  apart,  her  clear  eyes  strained  to  see, 
Her  little  hands  clasped  tight  around  her  knee, 
The  firelight  gleaming  on  her  golden  head, 
And  tinting  her  white  neck  to  rosy  red. 
Her  features  bright,  and  beautiful,  and  pure. 
With  childish  fear  and  yearning  half  demure. 


O  sweet,  sweet  dream  !  I  thought,  and  strained  mine  eyes, 
Fearing  to  break  the  spell  with  words  and  sighs. 
Softly  she  stooped,  her  dear  face  sweetly  fair. 
And  sweeter  since  a  light  like  love  was  there, 
Brightening,  watching,  more  and  more  elate, 
As  the  nuts  glowed  together  in  the  grate. 
Crackling  with  little  jets  of  fiery  light, 
Till  side  by  side  they  turned  to  ashes  white, — 
Then  up  she  leapt,  her  face  cast  off  its  fear 
For  rapture  that  itself  was  radiance  clear. 
And  would  have  clapped  her  little  hands  in  glee, 
But,  pausing,  bit  her  lips  and  peeped  at  me. 
And  met  the  face  that  yearned  on  her  so  whitely, 
And  gave  a  cry  and  trembled,  blushing  brightly, 
While,  raised  on  elbow,  as  she  turned  to  flee, 
"Polly!''''  I  cried, — and  grew  as  red  as  she  ! 


It  was  no  dream  !  for  soon  my  thoughts  were  clear, 
And  she  could  tell  me  all,  and  I  could  hear: 
How  in  my  sickness  friendless  I  had  lain, 
How  the  hard  people  pitied  not  my  pain; 
How,  in  spite  of  what  bad  people  said, 
She  left  her  labors,  stopped  beside  my  bed, 


A 


"3  V 


142  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 


■71 


►j|-:-4^< 


<■ 


And  nursed  me,  thinking  sadly  I  would  die; 

How,  in  the  end,  the  danger  passed  me  by; 

How  she  had  sought  to  steal  away  before 

The  sickness  passed,  and  I  was  strong  once  more. 

By  fits  she  told  the  story  in  mine  ear, 

And  troubled  all  the  telling  with  a  fear 

Lest  by  my  cold  man's  heart  she  should  be  chid, 

Lest  I  should  think  her  bold  in  what  she  did; 

But,  lying  on  my  bed,  I  dared  to  say. 

How  I  had  watched  and  loved  her  many  a  day, 

How  dear  she  was  to  me,  and  dearer  still 

For  that  strange  kindness  done  while  I  was  ill, 

And  how  I  could  but  think  that  Heaven  above 

Had  done  it  all  to  bind  our  lives  in  love. 

And  Polly  cried,  turning  her  face  away, 

And  seemed  afraid,  and  answered  "  yea  "  nor  "nay  " 

Then  stealing  close,  with  little  pants  and  sighs, 

Looked  on  my  pale  thin  face  and  earnest  eyes. 

And  seemed  in  act  to  fling  her  arms  about 

My  neck,  then,  blushing,  paused,  in  flattering  doubt, 

Last,  sprang  upon  my  heart,  sighing  and  sobbing, — 

That  I  might  feel  how  gladly  hers  was  throbbing ! 

Ah  1  ne'er  shall  I  forget  until  I  die 
How  happily  the  dreamy  days  went  by. 
While  I  grew  well,  and  lay  with  soft  heart-beats, 
Heark'ning  the  pleasant  murmur  from  the  streets, 
And  Pollyby  me  like  a  sunny  beam. 
And  life  all  changed,  and  love  a  drowsy  dream ! 
'T  was  happiness  enough  to  lie  artd  see 
The  little  golden  head  bent  droopingly 
Over  its  sewing,  while  the  still  time  flew, 
And  my  fond  eyes  were  dim  with  happy  dew  ! 


:^ 


\ 


LITTLE    MILLINER. 


~^1 


And  then,  when  I  was  nearly  well  and  strong, 
And  she  went  back  to  labor  all  day  long, 
How  sweet  to  lie  alone  with  half-shut  eyes, 
And  hear  the  distant  murmurs  and  the  cries, 
.  And  think  how  pure  she  was  from  pain  and  sin,— 
And  how  the  summer  days  were  coming  in ! 
Then,  as  the  sunset  faded  from  the  room, 
To  listen  for  her  footstep  in  the  gloom, 
To  pant  as  it  came  stealing  up  the  stair, 
To  feel  my  whole  life  brighten  unaware 
When  the  soft  tap  came  to  the  door,  and  when 
The  door  was  opened  for  her  smile  again  ! 
Best,  the  long  evenings! — when,  till  late  at  night. 
She  sat  beside  me  in  the  quiet  light, 
And  happy  things  were  said  and  kisses  won. 
And  serious  gladness  found  its  vent  in  fun. 
Sometimes  I  would  draw  close  her  shining  head, 
And  pour  her  bright  hair  out  upon  the  bed, 
And  she  would  laugh,  and  blush,  and  try  to  scold, 
While  "  Here,"  I  cried,  "  I  count  my  wealth  in  gold  ! " 


Once,  like  a  little  sinner  for  transgression. 
She  blushed  upon  my  breast,  and  made  confession: 
How,  when  that  night  I  woke  and  looked  around, 
I  found  her  busy  with  a  charm  profound, — 
One  chestnut  was  herself,  my  girl  confessed, 
The  other  was  the  person  she  loved  best, 
And  if  they  burned  together  side  by  side, 
He  loved  her,  and  she  would  become  his  bride; 
And  burn  indeed  they  did,  to  her  delight, — 
And  had  the  pretty  charm  not  proven  right  ? 
Thus  much,  and  more,  with  timorous  joy,  she  said. 
While  her  confessor,  too,  grew  rosy  red, — 


— sK. 


/ 


And  close  together  pressed  two  blissful  faces, 
As  I  absolved  the  sinner,  with  embraces. 

And  here  is  winter  come  again,  winds  blow, 
The  houses  and  the  streets  are  white  with  snow; 
And  in  the  long  and  pleasant  eventide, 
Why,  what  is  Polly  making  at  my  side  ? 
What  but  a  silk  gown,  beautiful  and  grand, 
We  bought  together  lately  in  the  Strand  ! 
What  but  a  dress  to  go  to  church  in  soon. 
And  wear  right  queenly  'neath  a  honey-moon  ! 
And  who  shall  match  her  with  her  new  straw  bonnet, 
Her  tiny,  foot  and  little  boot  upon  it. 
Embroidered  petticoat  and  silk  gown  new. 
And  shawl  she  wears  as  few  fine  ladies  do? 
And  she  will  keep,  to  charm  away  all  ill. 
The  lucky  sixpence  in  her  pocket  still; 
And  we  will  turn,  come  fair  or  cloudy  weather, 
To  ashes,  like  the  chestnuts,  close  together  ! 


•McjSfl^IiIi  V  BE6IN]\[I]S[6g.3le<- 


BY    CHARLES    MACK  AY. 


TRAVELER  through  a  dusty  road  strewed 

acorns  on  the  lea; 
And  one  took  root  and   sprouted  up,  and 

grew  into  a  tree. 
Love  sought  its  shade,  at  evening  time,  to 

breathe  its  early  vows; 
And  age  was  pleased,  in  heats  of  noon,  to 

bask  beneath  its  boughs; 
The  dormouse  loved  its  dangling  twigs,  the 

birds  sweet  music  bore; 
It  stood   a  glory  in   its   place,  a  blessing 

evermore. 


/ 


A  little  spring  had   lost  its  way  amid  the  grass  and  fern, 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well,  where  weary  men  might 

turn; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care  a  ladle  at  the  brink; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did,  but   judged  that  toil 

might  drink. 
He  passed  again,  and  lo  !  the  well,  by  summers  never  dried. 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand   parching  tongues,  and  saved  a 

life  beside. 

(H5) 


— s  V 


A  dreamer  dropped  a  random  thought;  't  was  old,  and  yet 

't  was  new; 
A  simple  fancy  of  the  brain,  but  strong  in  being  true. 
It  shone  upon  a  genial  mind,  and  lo  !  its  light  became 
A  lamp  of  life,  a  beacon  ray,  a  monitory  flame. 
The  thought  was  small;    its    issue    great;    a  watch-fire  on 

the  hill; 
It  sheds  its    radiance    far   adown,    and.  cheers  the  valley 

still ! 

A  nameless  man    amid  a  crowd   that   thronged   the    daily 

mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  Hope    and   Love,  unstudied,  from  the 

heart; 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, — a  transitory  breath, — 
It  raised  a   brother   from   the   dust;    it  saved  a  soul  from 

death. 
O  germ  !  O  fount !  O  word  of  love  !  O  thought  at  random 

cast ! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first,  but  mighty  at  the  last. 


/ 


-M 


K" 


~7 


^W-^WW^^^"^ 


That  was  a  thrilling  scene  in  the  old  chivalric  time— the  wine  circling 

round  the  board,  and  the  banquet-hall  ringing  with  sentiment  and  song 

when  the  lariy  of  each  knightly  heart  having  been  jjledged  by  name,  St. 
Leon  arose  in  his  turn,  and,  lifting  the  sparkling  cup  on  high,  said:  "  I 
drink  to  one 

j^q  HOSE  image  never  may  depart, 
Deep  graven  on  this  grateful  heart, 
Till  memory  is  dead; 

To  one  whose  love  for  me  shall  last 
When  lighter  passions  long  have  passed, 
So  holy  'tis,  and  true; 

To  one  whose  love  hath  longer  dwelt. 
More  deeply  fixed,  more  keenly  felt, 
Than  any  pledge  to  you." 

Each  guest  upstarted  at  the  word, 
And  laid  his  hand  upon  his  sword. 
With  fury-flashing  eyes; 

And  Stanley  said,  "  We  crave  the  name, 
Proud  knight,  of  this  most  peerless  dame,» 
Whose  love  you  count  so  high." 

St.  Leon  paused,  as  if  he  would 
Not  breathe  her  name  in  careless  mood 
Thus  lightly  to  another — 

Then  bent  his  noble  head,  as  though 
To  give  that  word  the  reverence  due, 
And  gently  said,  "  My  mother." 


VL 


(147) 


K 


-McJFKE-fY^IiE^©F^C^gPMERE.5l£<- 


71 


FROM    "THE   LIGHT   OF   THE    HAREM." 


BY   THOMAS    MOORE. 


HO  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 
With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever 
gave, 
Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over 
their  wave  ? 

O,  to  see  it  at  sunset, — when  warm  o'er  the  lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws. 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering  to  take 

A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes !  — 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming  half  shown. 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 
Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Here  the  Magian  his  urn  full  of  perfume  is  swinging. 
And  here,  at  the  altar,  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is  ringing. 
Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight, — when  mellowly  shines 
The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines; 
When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool  shining  walks  where  the  young  people  meet. 

(148) 


\ 


"  Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 
As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their  wave." 


Or  at  morn,  when  the  magic  of  daylight  awakes 
A  new  wonder  each  minute  as  slowly  it  breaks, 
Hills,  cupolas,  fountains,  called  forth  every  one 
Out  of  darkness,  as  they  were  just  born  of  the  sun. 
When  the  spirit  of  fragrance  is  up  with  the  day, 
From  his  harem  of  night-flowers  stealing  away; 
And  the  wind,  full  of  wantonness,  woos,  like  a  lover 
The  young  aspen-trees  till  they  tremble  all  over. 
When  the  east  is  as  warm  as  the  light  of  first  hopes, 

And  day,  with  its  banner  of  radiance  unfurled, 
Shines  in  through  the  mountainous  portal  that  opes, 

Sublime,  from  that  valley  of  bliss  to  the  world  ! 


^ 


>f- 


~7\ 


-McJI0IiIiY4C^l^EW.3|H- 


TO  THE  HARD-HEARTED  MOLLY  CAREW— THE  LAMENT 
OF  HER  IRISH  LOVER. 


BY    FATHER   PROUT. 


CH  hone  ! 

Oh  !  what  will  I  do  ? 
Sure  my  love  is  all  crost, 
Like  a  bud  in  the  frost  .  .  . 
And  there's  no  use  at  all 

In  my  going  to  bed; 

For  'tis  dhrames,  and  not  sleep. 

That  comes  into  my  head  .  .  . 
And  'tis  all  about  you, 

My  sweet  Molly  Carew, 

And  indeed"  'tis  a  sin 

And  a  shame. 

You're  complater  than  nature 

In  every  feature; 

The  snow  can't  compare 

To  your  forehead  so  fair; 

And  I  rather  would  spy 

Just  one  blink  of  your  eye 

Than  the  purtiest  star 

That  shines  out  of  the  sky; 

(150) 


■7" 


A^ 


V 


\ 


> 


MOLLY    CAREW. 


■rf:-!^^ 


Tho' — by  this  and  by  that ! 
For  the  matter  o'  that — 
You're  more  distant  by  far 
Than  that  same. 

Och  hone,  wierasthrew  ! 
I  am  alone 
In  this  world  without  you  1 


>t^ 


~A 


151 


<^ 


Och  hone  ! 

But  why  should  I  speak 
Of  your  forehead  and  eyes, 
When  your  nose  it  defies 
Paddy  Blake  the  schoolmaster 

To  put  it  in  rhyme  ?  — 
Though  there's  one  Burke, 
He  says, 
Who  would  call  it  SnubXvax^  .  .  . 

And  then  for  your  cheek, 
Throth,  'twould  take  him  a  week 
Its  beauties  to  tell 
As  he'd  rather: — 

Then  your  lips,  O  machree  ! 
In  their  beautiful  glow 
They  a  pattern  might  be 
For  the  cherges  to  grow. 
'Twas  an  apple  that  tempted 
Our  mother,  we  know; 
For  apples  were  scarce 
I  suppose  long  ago: 
But  at  this  time  o'  day 
'Pon  my  conscience  I'll  say, 
Such  cherries  might  tempf  . 
A  man's  father ! 


Ochhone,  wierasthrew ! 
I'm  alone 
In  this  world  without  you  ! 

Och  hone  ! 

By  the  man  in  the  moon  ! 
You  tease  me  all  ways 
That  a  woman  can  plaze; 
For  you  dance  twice  as  high 
With  that  thief  Pat  Macghee 
As  when  you  take  share 
Of  a  jig,  dear,  with  me; 

Though  the  piper  I  bate, 
For  fear  the  ould  chate 
Wouldn't  play  you  your 
Favorite  tune. 

And  when  you're  at  Mass 
My  devotion  you  crass, 
For  'tis  thinking  of  you 
I  am,  Molly  Carew; 
While  you  wear  on  purpose 
A  bonnet  so  deep, 
That  I  can't  at  your  sweet 
Pretty  face  get  a  peep. 
Oh  !  lave  off  that  bonnet, 
Or  else  Pll  lave  on  it 
The  loss  of  my  wandering 
Sowl! 

Och  hone  !   like  an  owl. 
Day  is  night, 
Dear,  to  me  without  you  ! 

Och  hone  ! 

Don't  provoke  me  to  do  it; 


y 


A^ 


For  there's  girls  by  the  score 
That  loves  me,  and  more. 

And  you'd  look  very  queer, 
If  some  morning  you'd  meet 
My  wedding  all  marching 
In  pride  down  the  street. 

Troth  you'd  open  your  eyes, 
And  you'd  die  of  surprise 
To  think  'twasn't  you 
Was  come  to  it. 

And  faith  !  Kitty  Naile 
And  her  cow,  I  go  bail. 
Would  jump  if  I'd  say, 
"  Kitty  Naile,^"name  the  day." 
And  though  you're  fair  and  fresh 
As  the  blossoms  of  May, 
And  she's  short  and  dark 
Like  a  cowld  winter's  day. 
Yet,  if  you  don't  repent 
Before  Easter — when  Lent 
Is  over — I'll  marry 
For  spite. 

Och  hone  !  and  when  I 
Die  for  you, 
'Tis  my  ghost  that  you'll  see  every  night. 


VL - Hlk^ 


Q ^ 


K" 


-A 


-Mc¥KEv0^I6INv0Fv¥pEv0P;3Ii.*<" 


ANONYMOUS. 


DEW-DROP  came,  with  a  spark  of  flame 
He  had  caught  from  the  sun's  last  ray, 
To  a  violet's  breast,  where  he  lay  at  rest 
Till  the  hours  brought  back  the  day. 

The  rose  looked  down,  with  a  blush  and 
frown; 

But  she  smiled  all  at  once,  to  view 
Her  own  bright  form,  with  its  coloring  warm, 

Reflected  back  by  the  dew. 


Then  the  stranger  took  a  stolen  look 
At  the  sky,  so  soft  and  blue; 

And  a  leaflet  green,  with  its  silver  sheen, 
Was  seen  by  the  idler  too. 

A  cold  north-wind,  as  he  thus  reclined, 

Qf  a  sudden  raged  around; 
And  a  maiden  fair,  who  was  walking  there, 

Next  morning,  an  opal  found. 


(154) 


A 


K" 


-Mcp^j^i-fWi^^^Mi^DE^^e-ffiea^jvi.:^ 


BY   ROBERT   BURNS. 


HEN  chill  November's  surly  blast, 
Made  fields  and  forests  bare, 
One  evening,  as  I  wander'd  forth   • 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years, 
And  hoary  was  his  hair. 


Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  ? 

(Began  the  reverend  sage;) 
Dost  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain. 

Or  youthful  ple^asures  rage  ? 
Or  haply,  prest  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began, 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man  ! 


The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 
Out-spreading  far  and  wide, 

Where  hundreds  labor  to  support 
A  haughty  lordling's  pride; 

(155) 


A^ 


~7 


156  THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

-> -Jf-i-^^- 


I've  seen  yon  weary  winter-sun 
Twice  forty  times  return; 

And  every  time  has  added  proofs 
That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


O  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years, 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mis-spending  all  thy  precious  hours 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway; 

Licentious  passions  burn; 
Which  tenfold  force  give  Nature's  law, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might: 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind, 

Supported  is  his  right. 
But  see  him  on  the  edge  of  life, 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn. 
Then  age  and  want,  oh  !  ill-matched  pair, 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 


A  few  seem  favorites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest; 
Yet,  think  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  oh  !  what  crowds,  in  every  land, 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn; 
Through  weary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

1^= _vl 


, 

«2 

^ 

— g 

^' 

]\~ 

"7^ 

(0 

MAN   WAS    MADE   TO    MOURN. 

157 

> 

-^— -'k-:-^^^ 

-<- 

Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 

More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves, 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 

And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn. 

Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  ! 

See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabor'd  wight. 

So   abject,  mean,  and  vile. 

Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth, 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil: 

And  see  his  lordly  fellow-worm 

' 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 

Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

If  I'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave — 

By  Nature's  law  design'd, 

Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind? 

If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn? 

Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

Yet,  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son, 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast: 

This  partial  view  of  human-kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 

\ 

/ 

-^ 

w  ^ 

^^- 

— ^- 

-     a 

V 

,\ 


"7 


158  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

-^ *'^\'^^ <:' 

The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man, 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born, 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn ! 

O  Death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend, 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow, 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn; 
But,  oh  !  a  blest  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn ! 


J^ 


1\ 


■3^¥PE^Cpil£D^E]\[.3i£<- 


BY   CHARLES    DICKENS. 


^HEN  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  the  school  for  the  day  is  dismissed, 
And  the  little  ones  gather  around  me, 

To  bid  the  good-night  and  be  kissed; 
Oh,  the  little  white  arms  that  encircle 
My  neck  in  a  tender  embrace  ! 
Oh,  the  smiles  that  are  halos  of  heaven, 
Shedding  sunshine  of  love  on  my  face  ! 


And  when  they  are  gone  I  sit  dreaming 

Of  my  childhood  too  lovely  to  last: 
Of  love  that  my  heart  will  remember, 

When  it  wakes  to  the  pulse  of  the  past. 
Ere  the  world  and  its  wickedness  made  me 

A  partner  of  sorrow  and  sin. 
When  the  glory  of  God  was  about  me, 

And  the  glory  of  gladness  within. 


J/ 


Oh,  my  heart  grows  weak  as  a  woman's, 
And  the  fountains  of  feeling  will  flow, 

When  I  think  of  the  paths,  steep  and  stony. 
Where  the  feet  of  the  dear  ones  must  go; 

(159) 


Of  the  mountains  of  sin  hanging  o'er  them, 
Of  the  tempest  of  Fate  blowing  wild; 

Oh  !  there  is  nothing  on  earth  half  so  holy, 
As  the  innocent  heart  of  a  child  ! 


They  are  idols  of  hearts  and  of  households, 

They  are  angels  of  God  in  disguise; 
His  sunlight  still  sleeps  in  their  tresses, 

His  glory  still  gleams  in  their  eyes; 
Oh  !  those  truants  from  home  and  from  heaven. 

They  have  made  me  more  manly  and  mild  ! 
And  I  know  how  Jesus  could  liken 

The  Kingdom  of  God  to  a  child. 


Seek  not  a  life  for  the  dear  ones, 

All  radiant  as  others  have  done, 
But  that  life  may  have  just  enough  shadow 

To  temper  the  glare  of  the  sun; 
I  would  pray  God  to  guard  them  from  evil, 

But  my  prayer  would  bound  back  to  myself. 
Ah  !  a  seraph  may  pray  for  a  sinner, 

But  a  sinner  must  pray  for  himself. 

The  twig  is  so  easily  bended, 

I  have  ba,nished  the  rule  and  the  rod; 
I  have  taught  them  the  goodness  of  knowledge. 

They  have  taught  me  the  goodness  of  God; 
My  heart  is  a  dungeon  of  darkness. 

Where  I  shut  them  from  breaking  a  rule: 
My  frown  is  sufficient  correction; 

My  love  is  the  law  of  the  school. 


1/ 

■7^ 


I  shall  leave  the  old  house  in  the  autumn, 

To  traverse  its  threshold  no  more; 
Ah !  how  I  shall  sigh  for  the  dear  ones, 

That  meet  me  each  morn  at  the  door  ! 
I  shall  miss  the  "good-nights  "  and  the  kisses, 

And  the  gush  of  their  innocent  glee, 
The  group  on  the  green  and  the  flowers 

That  are  brought  every  morning  to  me. 

I  shall  miss  them  at  morn  and  at  eve. 

Their  song  in  the  school  ^nd  the  street: 
I  shall  miss  the  low  hum  of  their  voices 

And  the  tramp  of  their  delicate  feet. 
When  the  lessons  and  tasks  are  all  ended, 

And  death  says,  "  The  school  is  dismissed  !  " 
May  the  little  ones  gather  around  me. 

To  bid  me  good-night  and  be  kissed. 


y     :J 


K- 


-McpaNTIN6-g6N6.3ie<- 


BY   SIR  WALTER   SCOTT. 


AKEN,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting-spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily  mingle  they, — 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  streaming. 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming. 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay. — 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies. 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size; 

(162) 


\ 


o  ^ 


"  We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size." 


■> 


HUNTING    SONG. 


^*-f-/T^ 


163 


< 


We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay; 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 
"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  !  " 
Tell  them  youth,  and  mirth,  and  glee, 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 
Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  baulk, 
Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk; 
Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 


A^ 


« ^ 


K 


"Tf 


-McJFPE^6^EE]SIW00D^gpi^IF¥.3}£^ 


A  SCENE   IN   WINDSOR   FOREST,    ENGLAND. 


BY    ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 


UTSTRETCHED  beneath  the  leafy  ^hade 
Of  Windsor  forest's  deepest  glade, 

A  dying  woman  lay; 
Three  little  children  round  her  stood, 
And  there  went  up  from  the  greenwood 

A  woful  wail  that  day. 


"  O  mother  !  "  was  the  mingled  cry, 
"  O  mother,  mother  !  do  not  die. 

And  leave  us  all  alone." 
"  My  blessed  babes  !  "  she  tried  to  say, 
But  the  faint  accents  died  away 

In  a  low  sobbing  moan. 


"7 


And  then,  life  struggling  hard  with  death. 
And  fast  and  strong  she  drew  her  breath, 

And  up  she  raised  her  head; 
And,  peering  through  the  deep  wood  maze 
With  a  long,  sharp,  unearthly  gaze, 

*'  Will  she  not  come  ?  "  she  said. 

(164) 


vl 


^  h- 


THK    GREENWOOD    SHRIFT.  1 65 

-> ►Jf-l-fj- <-- 

Just  then  the  parting  boughs  between, 
A  little  maid's  light  form  was  seen, 

All  breathless  with  her  speed; 
And  following  close  a  man  came  on 
(A  portly  man  to  look  upon,) 

Who  led  a  panting  steed. 

"  Mother  !  "  the  little  maiden  cried, 
Or  e'er  she  reached  the  woman's  side, 

And  kissed  her  clay-cold  cheek, — 
"  I  have  not  idled  in  the  town, 
But  Jong  went  wandering  up  and  down, 

The  minister  to  seek. 

"  They  told  me  here,  they  told  me  there, — 
I  think  they  mocked  me  everywhere; 

And  when  I  found  his  home, 
And  begged  him  on  my  bended  knee 
To  bring  his  book  and  come  with  me, 

Mother  !  he  would  not  come. 

"  I  told  him  how  you  dying  lay, 
And  could  not  go  in  peace  away 

Without  the  minister: 
I  begged  him,  for  dear  Christ  his  sake, 
But  O,  my  heart  was  fit  to  break, — 

Mother  !  he  would  not  stir. 

"  So,  though  my  tears  were  blinding  me, 
I  ran  back,  fas-t  as  fast  could  be, 

To  come  again  to  you; 
And  here — close  by — this  squire  I  met, 
Who  asked,  so  mild,  what  made  me  fret; 

And  when  I  told  him  true, — 


K ^ 


^ 


"*  I  will  go  with  you,  child,'  he  said, 
'  God  sends  me  to  this  dying  bed,'- 

Mother,  he's  here,  hard  by." 
While  thus  the  little  maiden  spoke, 
The  man,  his  back  against  an  oak, 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye. 

The  bridle  on  his  neck  hung  free, 

With  quivering  flank  and  trembling  knee, 

Pressed  close  his  bonny  bay; 
A  statelier  man,  a  statelier  steed. 
Never  on  greensward  paced,  I  rede, 

Than  those  stood  there  that  day. 


So,  while  the  little  maiden  spoke, 
The  man,  his  back  against  an  oak, 

Looked  on  with  glistening  eye 
And  folded  arms,  and  in  his  look 
Something  that,  like  a  sermon-book. 

Preached, — "All  is  vanity." 

But  when  the  dying  woman's  face 
Turned  toward  him  with  a  wishful  gaze, 

He  stepped  to  where  she  lay; 
And,  kneeling  down,  bent  over  her. 
Saying,  "  I  am  a  minister. 

My  sister  !  let  us  pray." 

And  well,  withouten  book  or  stole, 
(God's  words  were  printed  on  his  soul!) 

Into  the  dying  ear 
He  breathed,  as  'twere  an  angel's  strain, 
The  things  that  unto  life  pertain, 

And  death's  dark  shadows  clear. 


A^ 


— ■- ^       <^  >^ 

^ , — ^ 

THE    GREENWOOD   SHRIFT.  167 

-^ -jf-i-^J- ^ 

He  spoke  of  sinners'  lost  estate, 
In  Christ  renewed,  regenerate, — 

Of  God's  most  blest  decree, 
That  not  a  single  soul  should  die 
Who  turns  repentant,  with  the  cry 

"  Be  merciful  to  me." 

He  spoke  of  trouble,  pain,  and  toil, 
Endured  but  for  a  little  while 

In  patience,  faith,  and  love, — 
Sure,  in  God's  own  good  time,  to  be 
Exchanged  for  an  eternity  . 

.Of  happiness  above. 

Then  as  the  spirit  ebbed  away, 

He  raised  his  hands  and  eyes  to  pray 

That  peaceful  it  might  pass; 
And  then — the  orphan's  sobs  alone 
Were  heard,  and  they  knelt,  every  one 

Close  round  on  the  green  grass. 

Such  was  the  sight  their  wandering  eyes 
Beheld,  in  heart-struck,  mute  surprise, 

Who  reined  their  coursers  back. 
Just  as  they  found  the  long  astray, 
Who,  in  the  heat  of  chase  that  day. 

Had  wandered  from  their  track. 

But  each  man  reined  his  pawing  steed, 
And  lighted  down,  as  if  agreed. 

In  silence  at  his  side, 
And  there,  uncovered  all,  they  stood, — 
It  was  a  wholesome,  sight  and  good 

That  day  for  mortal  pride.  * 


.i> 


hT 


-7\ 


i68 


> 


THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

►jfH-:— : — 


■<r 


For  of  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Was  that  deep-hushed,  bareheaded  band; 

And  central  in  the  ring, 
By  that  dead  pauper  on  the  ground, 
Her  ragged  orphans  clinging  round, 

Knelt  their  anointed  king.* 

•George  III. 


-7? 


:^. 


K- 


y»- 


"71 


-H    "^     tr 


-^w^E^-nj^Yi^mnji^BJiM^ 


BY  JOSEPH   RODMAN   DRAKE. 


HEN  Freedom,  from  her  mountain  height, 
Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ! 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light, 
Then,  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun. 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land  ! 


ki 


Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud  ! 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest-trumpings  loud. 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 

(169) 


A 


170  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

-> ►jf-:-!^- <r 

And  rolls  the  thunder-drum  of  heaven, — 
Child  of  the  Sun  !  to  thee  't  is  given 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle-stroke. 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar. 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war. 

The  harbingers  of  victory  ! 


Flag  of  the  brave  !  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high  ! 
When  speaks  the  signal-trumpet  tone. 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on. 
Ere  yet  the  life-blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier's  eye  shall  brighty  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle  shroud. 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall. 
Then  shall  thy  ineteor  glances  glow. 

And  cowering  foes  shall  shrink  beneath 
Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 

That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 


Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale. 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 

\]/ 


\ 


V- 


THE    AMERICAN    FLAG.  171 

•> ►j!~:-4^- ■ — ^r- 

And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ! 


V 


K" 


-A 


^3f:C0Mj!lBI^.3}H. 


BY    TIMOTHY    DWIGHT. 


'OLUMBIA,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise, 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  child  of  the  skies  ! 
Thy  genius  commands  thee;  with  rapture  behold. 
While  ages  on  ages  thy  splendors  unfold. 
Thy  reign  is  the  last  and  the  noblest  of  tinae, 
Most  fruitful  thy  soil,  most  inviting  thy  clime; 
Let  the  crimes  of  the  east  ne'er  encrimson  thy  name, 
Be  freedom  and  science  and  virtue  thy  fame. 

To  conquest  and  slaughter  let  Europe  aspire; 
Whelm  nations  in  blood,  and  wrap  cities  in  lire; 
Thy  heroes  the  rights  of  mankind  shall  defend, 
And  triumph  pursue  them,  and  glory  attend. 
A  world  is  thy  realm;  for  a  world  be  thy  laws. 
Enlarged  as  thine  empire,  and  just  as  thy  cause; 
On  Freedom's  broad  basis  that  empire  shall  rise, 
Extend  with  the  main,  and  dissolve  with  the  skies. 

Fair  Science  her  gates  to  thy  sons  shall  unbar. 
And  the  east  see  thy  morn  hide  the  beams  of  her  star. 
New  bards  and  new  sages  unrivalled  shall  soar 
To  fame  unextinguished  when  time  is  no  more. 
To  thee,  the  last  refuge  of  virtue  designed. 
Shall  fly  from  all  nations  the  best  of  mankind; 
Here  grateful  to  heaven,  with  transport  shall  bring 
Their  incense,  more  fragrant  than  odors  ©f  spring. 

(172)  .. 


^. 


Nor  less  shall  thy  fair  ones  to  glory  ascend, 
And  genius  and  beauty  in  harmony  blend; 
The  graces  of  form  shall  awake  pure  desire, 
And  the  charms  of  the  soul  ever  cherish  the  fire; 
Their  sweetness  unmingled,  their  manners  refined. 
And  virtue's  bright  image,  enstamped  on  the  mind, 
With  peace  and  soft  rapture  shall  teach  life  to  glow, 
And  light  up  a  smile  on  the  aspect  of  woe. 

Thy  fleets  to  all  regions  thy  power  shall  display, 
The  nations  admire,  and  the  ocean  obey; 
Each  shore  to  thy  glory  its  tribute  unfold. 
And  the  east  and  the  south  yield  their  spices  and  gold. 
As  the  dayspring  unbounded  thy  splendor  shall  flow, 
And  earth's  little  kingdoms  before  thee  shall  bow, 
While  the  ensigns  of  union,  in  triumph  unfurled, 
Hush  the  tumult  of  war,  and  give  peace  to  the  world. 

Thus,  as  down  a  lone  valley,  with  cedars  o'erspread. 
From  war's  dread  confusion,  I  pensively  strayed, — 
The  gloom  from  the  face  of  fair  heaven  retired; 
The  winds  ceased  to  murmur,  the  thunders  expired; 
Perfumes,  as  of  Eden,  flowed  sweetly  along. 
And  a  voice,  as  of  angels,  enchantingly  sung: 
"Columbia,  Columbia,  to  glory  arise. 
The  queen  of  the  world,  and  the  child  of  the  skies." 


K 


\ 


^ 


K" 


-McJIY^C0a]\[¥l^Y.3le<- 


BY   JAMES    MONTGOMERY. 


'here  is  a  land,  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside, 
Where  brighter  suns  dispense  serener  light, 
And  milder  moons  imparadise  the  night; 
A  land  of  beauty,  virtue,  valor,  truth, 
Time-tutored  age,  and  love-exalted  youth: 

<-v-  . 

The  wandering  mariner,  whose  eye  explores 
The  wealthiest  isles,  the  most  enchanting  shores, 
Views  not  a  realm  so  bountiful  and  fair, 
Nor  breathes  the  spirit  of  a  purer  air. 
In  every  clime,  the  magnet  of  his  soul. 
Touched  by  remembrance,  trembles  to  that  pole; 
For  in  this  land  of  Heaven's  peculiar  race. 
The  heritage  of  nature's  noblest  grace. 
There  is  a  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 
Where  man,  creation's  tyrant,  casts  aside 
His  sword  and  sceptre,  pageantry  and  pride, 
While  in  his  softened  looks  benignly  blend 
The  sire,  the  son,  the  husband,  brother,  friend. 
Here  woman  reigns;  the  mother,  daughter,  wife, 
Strew  with  fresh  flowers  the  narrow  way  of  life: 

(174) 


;r 


^ 


MY   COUNTRY.  1 75 

•> '■it'.-i^-' «- 

In  the  clear  heaven  of  her  delightful  eye, 

An  angel-guard  of  love  and  graces  lie; 

Around  her  knees  domestic  duties  meet, 

And  fireside  pleasures  gambol  at  her  feet. 

"  Where  shall  that  land,  that  spot  of  earth  be  found  ?  " 

Art  thou  a  man  ?  —  a  patriot  ?  —  look  around; 

O,  thou  shalt  find,  howe'er  thy  footsteps  roam. 

That  land  ^/ly  country,  and  that  spot  thy  home  ! 

Man,  through  all  ages  of  revolving  time. 
Unchanging  man,  in  every  varying  clime. 
Deems  his  own  land  of  every  land  the  pride, 
Beloved  by  Heaven  o'er  all  the  world  beside; 
His  home  the  spot  of  earth  supremely  blest, 
A  dearer,  sweeter  spot  than  all  the  rest. 


— ^  -*        qPv 


~7\ 


^'^'^^mm'^w^^''^ 


BY    ELIZABETH    BARRETT   BROWNING. 


ER  hair  was  tawny  with  gold,  her  eyes  with 
purple  were  dark, 
Her  cheeks'-  pale  opal   burnt  with  a  red 
and  restless  spark. 


II. 


Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in  name 

and  in  race; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see  in 

the  face. 


III. 


Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true  as  woman  and  wife, 
Larger  in  judgment  and  instinct,  prouder  in  manners  and  life. 


IV 


She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and  said  to  her  maidens, 

"  Bring 
That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear  at  the  court  of  the  king. 


V. 


"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamonds,  lucid,  clear  of  the  mote. 
Clasp  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and  clasp  me  the  small  at  the 
throat. 

Yi (176) 


M 


VI. 

"  Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and  diamonds  to  fasten  the 

sleeves, 
Laces  to  drop  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of  snow  from 

the  eaves." 

VII. 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight  which  gathered  her  up  in 

a  flame, 
While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage,  she  to  the  hospital 

came. 

VIII. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing,  from  end  to  end, 
"  Many  and  low  are  the  pallets,  but  each  is  the  place  of  a 
friend." 

IX. 

Up  she  passed  through  the  wards,  and  stood  at  a  young 
man's  bed:  * 

Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and  livid  the  droop  of  his 
head. 


"  Art  thou  a  Lombard,  my  brother  ?     Happy  are  thou  !  "  she 

cried. 
And  smiled  like  Italy  on  him:  he  dreamed  in  her  face  and 

died. 

XI. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went  on  still  to  a  second: 
He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose  years  by  dungeons  were 
reckoned. 

V M 


.^ 3> 


XII. 

Wounds  in  his  body  were  sore,  wounds  in  his  life  were  sorer. 
"Art  thou   a   Romagnole?"     Her    eyes   drove   lightnings 
before  her. 

XIII. 

"  Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to  double  and  tighten  the 

cord 
Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one,— free  by  the  stroke  of  a 

sword. 

XIV. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us,  using  the  life  overcast 
To  ripen  our  wine  of  the  present  (too  new)  in  glooms  of  the 
past." 

XV. 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  pallet  where  lay  a  face  like  a  girl's. 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying, — a  deep  black  hole  in  the 
curls. 

XVI. 

"  Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother  ?  and  seest  thou,  dreaming 

in  pain, 
Thy  mother  stand  in  the  piazza,  searching  the  list  of  the 

slain  ?  " 

XVII. 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched  his  cheeks  with  her 

hands: 
"Blessed  is  she  who  has  born  thee,  although   she   should 

weep  as  she  stands." 

I \ \ 

'^  ~J( _ 


N  '.  ' 

A   COURT   LADY.  1 79 

-> 'ih-'.-i^^ ^-' 

XVIII. 

On  she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his  arm  carried  off  by  a  ball: 
Kneeling,  .  .  "O  more  than  my  brother !  how  shall  I  thank 
thee  for  all  ? 

XIX. 

"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has  fought  for  his  land  and 

line, 
But  ^/lou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger,  in  hate  of  a  wrong  not 

thine. 

XX. 

"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too  strong  to  be  dispossessed. 
But  blessed  are  those  among  nations  who  dare  to  be  strong 
for  the  rest !  " 

XXI. 
Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and  came  to  a  couch  where 

pined 
One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white  with  a  hope  out  of 

mind. 

XXII. 
Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice  she  tried  at  the  name, 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all  that  faltered  and  came. 

XXIII. 
Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?  —  she  turned  as  in  passion  and  loss. 
And  stooped  to  his  forehead  and  kissed  it,  as  if  she  were 
kissing  the  cross. 

XXIV. 
Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart,  she  moved  on  then  to  another, 
Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.     "And  dost  thou  suffer,  my 
brother?  " 


l8o  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

-^ -^-."^^ <r- 

XXV. 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers  :  —  "Out  of  the  Piedmont  lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of  freedom  !  sweetest  to  live  or  to 
die  on." 

XXVI. 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands, — "Well,  O,  well  have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would  not  be  noble  alone." 


XXVII. 

Back  he  fell  while  she  spoke.     She  rose  to  her  feet  with  a 

spring — 
"  That  was  a  Piedmontese  !   and  this  is  the  Court  of  the 

King." 


^y  — - ^^ 


/ 


pP0IiE0N^^ND*^5fpE^B]^I¥ISP^g^IIi0^. 


BY    THOMAS    CAMPBELL. 


LOVIC  contemplating — apart 

From  all  his  homicidal  glory — 
The  iraits  that  soften  to  our  heart 
Napoleon's  glory  ! 

'T  was  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 

Armed  in  bur  island  every  freeman, 
His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 


They  suffered  him — I  know  not  how — 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam; 
And  aye  was  bent  his  longing  brow 
On   England's  home. 

His  eye,  methinks !  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over; 
With  envy  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 


A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  this  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 
If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

(i8i) 


-M 


r- 


« ^ 


K 


■- — 7\ 


THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 


^ 


►j|-:-4^^ 


< 


At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep, 

He  saw  one  morning,  dreaming,  doting, 
An  empty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating. 

He  hid  it  in  a  cave,  and  wrought 

The  live-long  day  laborious;  lurking 
Until  he  launched  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us  !  't  was  a  thing  beyond 

Description  wretched;  such  a  wherry 
Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond, 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  ploughing  in  the  salt-sea  field,' 

It  would  have  made  the  boldest  shudder; 
Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled, — 
No  sail,  no  rudder. 


From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 

His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows; 
And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows, — 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach, 

His  little  Argus  sorely  jeering; 
The  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 
Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger; 
And,  in  his  wonted  attitude. 

Addressed  the  stranger: — 


A^ 


NAPOLEON    AND    THE    BRITISH    SAILOR.  1 83 

-> -^-i-f^- <:- 

"  Rash  man,  that  wouldst  yon  Channel  pass 

On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned, 
Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad; 

"  But — absent  long  from  one  another — 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 
To  see  my  mother." 

"And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said, 

"  Ye've  both  my  favor  fairly  won; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 
So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold. 

And,  with  a  flag  of  truce,  commanded 
He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 

To  find  a  dinner,  plain  and  hearty, 
But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 
Of  Bonaparte. 


y  ^  •_^- 


\ 


/ 


-MdFpeaepT.^iH- 


BY   CHRISTOPHER   PEARSE   CRANCH. 


HOUGHT  is  deeper  than  all  speech, 
Feeling  deeper  than  all  thought; 
Souls  to  souls  can  never  teach 

What  unto  themselves  was  taught. 

We  are  spirits  clad  in  veils; 

Man  by  man  was  never  seen; 
AH  our  deep  communing  fails 

To  remove  the  shadowy  screen. 

Heart  to  heart  was  never  known; 

Mind  with  mind  did  never  meet; 
We  are  columns  left  alone 

Of  a  temple  once  complete. 

Like  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky, 

Far  apart  though  seeming  near. 

In  our  light  we  scattered  lie; 

All  is  thus  but  starlight  here. 

What  is  social  company 

But  a  babbling  summer  stream  ? 
What  our  wise  philosophy 

But  the  glancing  of  a  dream  ? 

(184) 


"7 


K" 


THOUGHT.  185 

_^ -.i^:^-. 4^ 

Only  when  the  sun  of  love 

Melts  the  scattered  stars  of  thought, 

Only  when  we  live  above 

What  the  dim-eyed  world  has  taught. 

Only  when  our  souls  are  fed 

By  the  fount  which  gave  them  birth, 

And  by  inspiration  led. 

Which  they  never  drew  from  earth. 

We,  like  parted  drops  of  rain, 

Swelling  till  they  meet  and  run. 

Shall  be  all  absorbed  again. 
Melting,  flowing  into  one. 


k ^' 


K ■ 


^ 


•McTpE4gE^^FI6P¥.3ie<- 


AS  TOLD  BY  AN  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


ANONYMOUS. 


-■ 


k. 


H,  yes, — the  fight !     Well,  messmates,  well, 
I  served  on  board  that  Ninety-eight; 

Yet  what  I  saw  I  loathe  to  tell. 

To-night  be  sure  a  crushing  weight 

Upon  my  sleeping  breast,  a  hell 

Of  dread,  will  sit.     At  any  rate. 

Though  land-locked  here,a  watch  I'll  keep, — 

Grog  cheers  us  still.     Who  cares  for  sleep  ? 


That  Ninety-eight  I  sailed  on  board; 

Along  the  Frenchman's  coast  we  flew; 
Right  aft  the  rising  tempest  roared; 
A  noble  first  rate  hove  in  view; 
And  soon  high  in  the  gale  there  soared 

Her  streamed-out  bunting, — red,  white,  blue  ! 
We  cleared  for  fight,  and  landward  bore. 
To  get  between  the  chase  and  shore. 

(i86) 


^ 


\ 


A 


Masters,  I  cannot  spin  a  yarn 

Twice  laid  with  words  of  silken  stuff. 
A  fact  's  a  fact;  and  ye  may  larn 

The  rights  o'  this,  though  wild  and  rough 
My  words  may  loom.     'T  is  your  consarn, 

Not  mine,  to  understand.     Enough; — 
We  neared  the  Frenchman  where  he  lay, 
And  as  we  neared,  he  blazed  away. 


We  tacked,  hove  to;  we  filled,  we  wore; 

Did  all  that  seamanship  could  do 
To  rake  him  aft,  or  by  the  fore, — 

Now  rounded  off,  and  now  broached  to; 
And  now  our  starboard  broadside  bore. 

And  showers  of  iron  through  and  through 
His  vast  hull  hissed;  our  larboard  then 
Swept  from  his  threefold  decks  his  men. 


As  we,  like  a  huge  serpent,  toiled, 

And  wound  about,  through  that  wild  sea, 
The  Frenchman  each  manoeuvre  foiled, — 

'Vantage  to  neither  there  could  be. 
Whilst  thus  the  waves  between  us  boiled, 

We  both  resolved  right  manfully 
To  fight  it  side  by  side; — began 
Then  the  fierce  strife  of  man  to  man. 


Gun  bellows  forth  to  gun,  and  pain 

Rings  out  her  wild,  delirious  scream  ! 

Redoubling  thunders  shake  the  main; 

Loud  crashing,  falls  the  shot-rent  beam. 


jy 


<8 •- 


1 88 


-A 


THE    CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 


■>■ 


►jf:«fj^ 


■<■ 


The  timbers  with  the  broadsides  strain; 

The  slippery  deck  sends  up  a  steam 
From  hot  and  living  blood,  and  high 
And  shrill  is  heard  the  death-pang  cry. 


The  shredded  limb,  the  splintered  bone, 

The  unstiffened  corpse,  now  block  the  way  ! 

Who  can  hear  the  dying  groan  ? 

The  trumpet  of  the  judgment-day, 

Had  it  pealed  forth  its  mighty  tone. 

We  should  not  then  have  heard, — to  say 

Would  be  rank  sin;  but  this  I  tell. 

That  could  alone  our  madness  quell. 

Upon  the  forcastle  I  fought 

As  captain  of  the  for'ad  gun. 
A  scattering  shot  the  carriage  caught ! 

What  mother  then  had  known  her  son 
Of  those  who  stood  around  ?  —  distraught. 

And  smeared  with  gore,  about  they  run, 
Then  fall,  and  writhe,  and  howling  die  ! 
But  one  escaped, — that  one  was  I ! 


V- 


Night  darkened  round,  and  the  storm  pealed; 

To  windward  of  us  lay  the  foe. 
As  he  to  leeward  over  keeled, 

He  could  not  fight  his  guns  below; 
So  just  was  going  to  strike,— when  reeled 

Our  vessel,  as  if  some  vast  blow 
From  an  Almighty  hand  had  rent 
The  huge  ship  from  her  element. 


_\ 


\ 


. 

, 

^ 

a 

..^. 

^                 G) 

^ 

6] 

\ 

/ 

0 

t 

THE    SEA   FIGHT. 

189 

r 

-*-                               '*6  .  .^•' 

s* 

Then  howled  the  thunder.     Tumult  then 

Had  stunned  herself  to  silence.     Round 

Were  scattered  lightning-blasted  men  ! 

Our  mainmast  went.     All  stifled,  drowned, 

Arose  the  Frenchman's  shout.     Again 

The  bolt  burst  on  us,  and  we  found 

Our  masts  all  gone, — our  decks  all  riven: 

Man's  war  mocks  faintly  that  of  heaven  ! 

Just  then, — nay,  messmates,  laugh  not  now, — 

As  I,  amazed,  one  minute  stood 

Amidst  that  rout, — I  know  not  how, — 

'T  was  silence  all, — the  raving  flood. 
The  guns  that  pealed  from  stem  to  bow, 

And  God's  own  thunder, — nothing  could 
I  then  of  all  that  tumult  hear, 
Or  see  aught  of.  all  that  scene  of  fear, — 

My  aged  mother  at  her  door 

Sat  mildly  o'er  her  humming  wheel; 
The  cottage,  orchard,  and  the  moor, — 

I  saw  them  plainly  all.     I  'U  kneel. 
And  swear  I  saw  them  !     O,  they  wore 

A  look  all  peace?     Could  I  but  feel 
Again  that  bliss  that  then  I  felt. 
That  made  my  heart,  like  childhood's  melt ! 

The  blessed  tear  was  on  my  cheek. 

She  smiled  with  that  old  smile  I  know. 
"  Turn  to  me,  mother,  turn  and  speak," 

( 

< 

Was  on  my  quivering  lips, — when  lo  ! 

\ 

^ 

.  _\ 

W 

^ 

t 

— wr- 

-«        0 

\*" 

ipO  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

-^ ^^'.-ii' <■ 

All  vanished,  and  a  dark,  red  streak 

Glared  wild  and  vivid  from  the  foe, 
That  flashed  upon  the  blood-stained  water, — 
For  fore  and  aft  the  flames  had  caught  her. 


She  struck  and  hailed  us.     On  us  fast 
All  burning,  helplessly,  she  came, — 

Near,  and  more  near;  and  not  a  mast 
Had  we  to  help  us  from  that  flame. 

'T  was  then  the  bravest  stood  aghast, — 
'T  was  then  the  wicked,  on  the  name 

(With  danger  and  with  guilt  appalled) 

Of  God,  too  long  neglected,  called. 


The  eddying  flames  with  ravening  tongue 

Now  on  our  ship's  dark  bulwarks  dash, — 

We  almost  touched, — when  ocean  rung 

Down  to  its  depths  with  one  loud  crash  ! 

In  heaven's  top  vault  one  instant  hung 
The  vast,  intense,  and  blinding  flash  ! 

Then  all  was  darkness,  stillness,  dread, — 

The  wave  moaned  over  the  valiant  dead. 


She's  gone  !  blown  up  !  that  gallant  foe  ! 

And  though  she  left  us  in  a  plight, 
We  floated  still;  long  were,  I  know. 

And  hard,  the  labors  of  that  night 
To  clear  the  wreck.     At  length  in  tow 

A  frigate  took  us,  when  't  was  light; 
And  soon  an  English  port  we  gained, — 
A  hulk  all  battered  and  blood-stained. 


JM 


/ 


•>- 


THE    SEA    FIGHT. 


►j!-:-i^^ 


191 


< 


So  many  slain, — so  many  drowned  ! 

I  like  not  of  that  fight  to  tell. 
Come,  let  the  cheerful  grog  go  round  ! 

Messmates,  I've  done.     A  spell,  ho  !  spell,- 
Though  a  pressed  man,  I  '11  still  be  found 

To  do  a  seaman's  duty  well. 
I  wish  our  brother  landsmen  knew 
One  half  we  jolly  tars  go  through. 


« i»^ 


7f' 


■Hic0NLYv^vW@M^]^;l£^ 


BY   DINAH    MARIA    MULOCK, 


"  She  loves  with  love  that  cannot  tire; 

And  if,  ah,  woe!  she  loves  alone, 
Through  passionate  duty  love  flames  higher, 

As  grass  grows  taller  round  a  stone." 

COVENTRY    PATMORE. 


O,  the  truth  's  out.  I'll  grasp  it  like  a  snake, — 
It  will  not  slay  me.  My  heart  shall  not  break 
Awhile,  if  only  for  the  children's  sake. 

For    his,    too,    somewhat.      Let    him    stand 

unblamed; 
None  say,  he  gave  me  less  than  honor  claimed, 
Except  —  one     trifle     scarcely    worth    being 

named  — 


The  heari.  That 's  gone.  The  corrupt  dead  might  be 
As  easily  raised  up,  breathing,— fair  to  see. 
As  he  could  bring  his  whole  heart  back  to  me. 


I  never  sought  him  in  coquettish  sport, 
Or  courted  him  as  silly  maidens  court, 
And  wonder  when  the  longed-for  prize  falls  short. 

(192) 


>\ 


L. 


ONLY    A   WOMAN.  1 93 

>— -Jf-i-i^- 4- 

I  only  loved  him, — any  woman  would: 
But  shut  my  love  up  till  he  came  and  sued. 
Then  poured  it  o'er  his  dry  life  like  a  flood. 


I  was  so  happy  I  could  make  him  blest !  — 

So  happy  that  I  was  his  first  and  best, 

As  he  mine, — when  he  took  me  to  his  breast. 


Ah  me  !  if  only  then  he  had  been  true  ! 

If  for  one  little  year,  a  month  or  two, 

He  had  given  me  love  for  love,  as  was  my  due  ! 

Or  had  he  told,  me,  ere  the  deed  was  done, 
He  only  raised  me  to  his  heart's  dear  throne — 
Poor  substitute — because  the  queen  was  gone  ! 

0,  had  he  whispered,  when  his  sweetest  kiss 
Was  warm  upon  my  mouth  in  fancied  bliss, 
He  had  kissed  another  woman  even  as  this, — 

It  were  less  bitter  !     Sometimes  I  could  weep 
To  be  thus  cheated,  like  a  child  asleep; — 
Were  not  my  anguish  far  too  dry  and  deep. 

So  I  built  my  house  upon  another's  ground; 
Mocked  with  a  heart  just  caught  at  the  rebound, — 
A  cankered  thing  that  looked  so  firm  and  sound. 

And  when  that  heart  gr-ew  colder, — colder  still, 

1,  ignorant,  tried  all  duties  to  fulfil. 
Blaming  my  foolish  pain,  exacting  will, 


Q »^ 


/f 


194  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL    GEMS. 

-^ ►Jfv-f^^ €-- 

All, — anything  but  him.     It  was  to  be 
The  full  draught  others  drink  up  carelessly 
Was  made  this  bitter  Tantalus-cup  for  me. 

I  say  again, — he  gives  me  all  I  claimed, 
I  and  my  children  never  shall  be  shamed: 
He  is  a  just  man, — he  will  live  unblamed. 

Only — O  God,  O  God,  to  cry  for  bread, 
And  get  a  stone  !  Daily  to  lay  my  head 
Upon  a  bosom  where  the  old  love 's  dead  ! 

Dead? — Fool!     It  never  lived.     It  only  stirred 
Galvanic,  like  an  hour-cold  corpse.     None  heard: 
So  let  me  bury  it  without  a  word. 

He  '11  keep  that  other  woman  from  my  sight. 
I  know  not  if  her  face  be  foul  or  bright; 
I  only  know  that  it  was  his  delight — 

As  his  was  mine;  I  only  know  he  stands 
Pale,  at  the  touch  of  their  long-severed  hands, 
Then  to  a  flickering  smile  his  lips  commands, 

Lest  I  should  grieve,  or  jealous  anger  show. 

He  need  not.     When  the  ship  's  gone  down,  I  trow. 

We  little  reck  whatever  wind  may  blow. 

And  so  my  silent  moan  begins  and  ends, 

No  world's  laugh  or  world's  taunt,  no  pity  of  friends 

Or  sneer  of  foes,  with  this  my  torment  blends. 

\K . ■■      \| 


None  knows, — none  heeds.     I  have  a  little  pride; 
Enough  to  stand  up,  wifelike,  by  his  side, 
With  the  same  smile  as  when  I  was  his  bride; 

And  I  shall  take  his  children  to  my  arms; 

They  will  not  miss  these  fading,  worthless  charms; 

Their  kiss — ah  !  unlike  his — all  pain  disarms. 

And  haply  as  the  solemn  years  go  by. 

He  will  think  sometimes,  with  regretful  sigh, 

The  other  woman  was  less  true  than  I. 


V . M 


-s  \ 


^ 


K 


~A 


•>3ic3FpE^BEIiIig^eF:  gp;«P@N.*^ 


BY  fathp:r  prout. 


Sabbat  a  pango; 
Funera  plango; 
Solemnia  clango. 

INSCKII'TION   ON   AN   OLD  BELL. 

ITH  deep  aflfection 
And  recollection 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells. 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 


K 


On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork  of  thee, — 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 

(196) 


^. 


^n: ^ 

THE    BELLS    OF    SHANDON.  I97 

-^ ►rf:-!^- <- 

I  've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 
While  at  a  glibe  rate 
Brass  tongues  would  vibrate; 
But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine. 


For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry,  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  river  Lee. 


I  've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, — 
And  symbols  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame; 


But  thy  sounds  were  sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er   the  Tiber, 
Pealing  solemnly. 

— ^  ^^ a\ 


•V 


198  THE    CASKET   OF   POETICAL    GEMS. 

-^ ^^/4-*^* <r- 


>^ 


/- 


Oh  !   the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  river  Lee. 

There  's  a  bell  in  Moscow; 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O 
In  St.  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets, 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer, 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 

Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them; 
But  there  's  an  anthem 

More  dear  to  me, — 
'T  is  the  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the   river  Lee. 


IV 


^ 


BY   THOMAS    MOORE. 


T  is  believed  that  this  harp  which  I  wake  now  for 
thee 
Was  a  siren  of  old  who  sung  under  the  sea; 
1^    And  who  often  at  eve  through  the   bright  billow 
roved 
To  meet  on  the  green  shore  a  youth  whom  she 
loved. 


/ 


But  she  loved  him  in  vain,  for  he  left  her  to  weep, 
And  in  tears  all  the  night  her  gold  ringlets  to  steep, 

(199) 


^ 


Ts 


"71 


THE    CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 


->■ 


►^•:-4^^ 


■^r- 


Till  Heaven  looked  with  pity  on  true  love  so  warm, 
And  changed  to  this  soft  harp  the  sea-maiden's  form ! 

Still  her  bosom  rose  fair — still  her  cheek  smiled  the  same — 
While  her  sea-beauties  gracefully  curled  round  the  frame; 
And  her  hair,  shedding  tear-drops  from  all  its  bright  rings, 
Fell  over  her  white  arm,  to  make  the  gold  strings! 

Hence  it  came  that  this  soft  harp  so  long  hath  been  known 
To  mingle  love's  language  with  sorrow's  sad  tone; 
Till  thou  didst  divide  them,  and  teach  the  fond  lay 
To  be  love  when  I  'm  near  thee  and  grief  when  away ! 


^ 


K" 


-Mc^e  vM;i^YvIJ\I:pE^YE]\[.3{e^ 


BY    ROBERT    BURNS. 


[Composed  by  Burns,  in  September,  1789,  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
day  on  which  he  heard  of  the  death  of  his  early  love,  Mary  Campbell] 


K- 


HOU  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lov'st  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ? 
See'st  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  ? 


That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, — 

Can  I  forget  the  hallowed  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love  ! 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace; 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  't  was  our  last ! 

Ayr,  gurgling,  kissed  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thickening  green; 

The  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar, 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene: 

(201) 


JM 


•f^ 


The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest, 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, — 

Till  soon,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaimed  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care  ! 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear 
My  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest? 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast? 


A^ 


\ 


IV 


~7\ 


c^e^ 


BY    JAMES    THOMSON. 


I  PRISING  the  lark 
Shrill-voiced    and    loud,   the  messenger   of 

morn: 
Ere  yet  the  shadows  fly,  he  mounted  sings 
Amid  the  dawning  clouds,  and  from  their 

haunts 
Calls  up  the  tuneful  nations.     Every  copse 
b  ^^    /      Deep-tangled,  tree  irregular,  and  bush 
(»  \^  Bending  with  dewy  moisture,  o'er  the  heads 

Of  the  coy  quiristers  that  lodge  within. 
Are  prodigal  of  harmony.     The  thrush 
And  woodlark,'o'er  the  kind-contending  throng 
(203) 


"3  \ 


^= 7 

204  THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

-^ ^ ►if-:4J^— <-- 

Superior  heard,  run  through  the  sweetest  length 
Of  notes;  when  listening  Philomela  deigns 
To  let  them  joy,  and  purposes,  in  thought 
Elate,  to  make  her  night  excel  their  day. 
The  blackbird  whistles  from  the  thorny  brake; 
The  mellow  bullfinch  answers  from  the  grove; 
Nor  are  the  linnets,  o'er  the  flowering  furze 
Poured  out  profusely,  silent:  joined  to  these 
Innumerous  songsters,  in  the  freshening  shade 
Of  new-sprung  leaves,  their  modulations  mix 
Mellifluous.     The  jay,  the  rook,  the  daw, 
And  each  harsh  pipe,  discordant  heard  alone, 
Aid  the  full  concert;  while  the  stockdove  breathes 
A  melancholy  murmur  through  the  whole. 

'T  is  love  creates  their  melody,  and  all 
This  waste  of  music  is  the  voice  of  love; 
That  even  to  birds  and  beasts  the  tender  arts 
Of  pleasing  teaches. 


K" 


^cfpE4¥w@^^PRm^jie^NiPg.=H 


/f 


BY   WILLIAM    WORDSWORTH. 


^  E  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun; 
And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked  and  said, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  !  " 


A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray; 

As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 
And  by  the  steaming  rills 

We  traveled  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 


kl 


"  Our  work,"  said  I,  "  was  well  begun; 

Then  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 

So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ?  " 
(205) 


^ 


206  THE  CASKET  OF  POETICAL  GEMS. 

-^ '^-.-^^ €-- 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop; 

And,  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply: 

"  Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 

Full  thirty  years  behind. 

"  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 

Such  colors,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn, 

Of  this  the  very  brother. 

"With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 

Which  that  sweet  season  gave. 
And,  coming  to  the  church,  stopped  short 

Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

"  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 

The  pride  of  all  the  vale; 
And  then  she  sang; — she  would  have  been 

A  very  nightingale. 

"  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay; 

And  yet  I  loved  her  more — 
For  so  it  seemed — than  till  that  day 

I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

**  And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met 

Beside  the  churchyard  yew 
A  blooming  girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 

With  points  of  morning  dew. 


, 

. 

^ 

o 

■^ 

^               G> 

^ 

Sj 

\ 

/ 

■jo"^ 

< 

THE   TWO   APRIL   MORNINGS. 

► 

■«^                                            '-fe    .^* 

Si 

"  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare; 

- 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white: 

To  see  a  child  so  very  fair, 

It  was  a  pure  dehght ! 

"  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 

E'er  tripped  with  foot  so  free; 

She  seemed  as  happy  as  a  wave 

That  dances  on  the  sea. 

**  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 

Which  I  could  ill  confine; 

I  looked  at  her,  and  looked  again: 

And  did  not  wish  her  mine  !  " 

— Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 

Methinks  I  see  him  stand 

As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 

Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

>  :^ 

(ii'^b^^^H^^^^k 

^^^^r 

< 

• 

i 

0 

^ 

\ 

19  ^ 

^ 

to 

— w^ 

« 

\^ 

■ 

\ 

■ 

-Mc;«liPI]SIE-fpEI6pTg.3l£<- 


BY   KRUMMACHER   (GERMAN). 


TRANSLATION   OF   CHARLES   T.    BROOKS. 


K- 


N  Alpine  heights  the  love  of  God  is  shed; 
He  paints  the  morning  red, 
The  flowerets  white  and  blue, 
And  feeds  them  with  his  dew. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


On  Alpine  heights,  o'er  many  a  fragrant  heath, 
The  loveliest  breezes  breathe; 
So  free  and  pure  the  air, 
His  breath  seems  floating  there. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

On  Alpine  heights,  beneath  his  mild  blue  eye, 
Still  vales  and  meadows  lie; 
The  soaring  glacier's  ice 
Gleams  like  a  paradise. 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 

(208) 


\J 


ALPINE  HEIGHTS. 


\Q_ 


K 


Vi 


> 


ALPINE    HEIGHTS. 


►^•:-i^ 


209 


-•=c-'" 


Down  Alpine  heights  the  silvery  streamlets  flowj 

There  the  bold  chamois  go; 

On  giddy  crags  they  stand, 

And  drink  from  his  own  hand.  y 

On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


On  Alpine  heights  the  herdsman  tends  his  herd; 

His  Shepherd  is  the  Lord; 

For  he  who  feeds  the  sheep 

Will  sure  his  offspring  keep. 
On  Alpine  heights  a  loving  Father  dwells. 


\ 


K" 


A 


3FpE^Ii7ipiN6v6F :  TPE:  Pme^IM^F/ITpERg. 


BY   FEU  CIA    HEMANS, 


HE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock -bound  coast, 
And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed; 


And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 


Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came; 

Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 
And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame: 


"71 


VL 


Not  as  the  flying  come. 

In  silence  and  in  fear; — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

(210) 


f^       — —  : " y 

THE    LANDING    OF    THE    PILGRIM    FATHERS.  211 

->> ►jf:-!^- <r- 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  waves  foam. 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared, — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  that  pilgrim-band: 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ? — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground. 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found, — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 


/^ H 


\ 


k: 


-Mc5EYE]^v5^IMEg^TWe.=}£<- 


-v\ 


BY   JEAN   INGELOW. 


^ 


OU  bells  in  the  steeple,  ring,  ring  out  your 
changes, 

How  many  soever  they  bfe, 
And  let  the  brown  meadow-lark's  note  as 
he  ranges 

Come  over,  come  over  to  me. 

Yet    birds'    clearest   carol    by    fall    or   by 
swelling 

No  magical  sense  conveys, 
And   bells   have  forgotten  their  old  art  of 
telling 

The  fortune  of  future  days. 

"Turn  again,  turn  again,"  once  they  rang  cheerily 

While  a  boy  listened  alone: 
Made  his  heart  yearn  again,  musing  so  wearily 

All  by  himself  on  a  stone. 

Poor  bells  !  I  forgive  you;  your  good  days  are  over. 

And  mine,  they  are  yet  to  be; 
No  listening,  no  longing,  shall  aught,  aught  discover: 

You  leave  the  story  to  me. 

(212) 


•V 


K 


A 


•HicTO^;^^gKEl£E¥0]V.3}e<" 


ANONYMOUS. 


[The  MSS.  of  tliis  poem,  which  appeared  during  the  first  quarter  of 
the  present  century,  was  said  to  have  been  found  in  the  Museum  of  the 
Royal  College  of  Surgeons,  in  London,  near  a  perfect  human  skeleton, 
and  to  have  been  sent  by  the  curator  to  the  Morning  Chronicle  for  publi- 
cation. It  excited  so  much  attention  that  every  effort  was  made  to 
discover  the  author,  and  a  responsible  party  went  so  far  as  to  offer  a 
reward  of  fifty  guineas  for  information  that  would  discover  its  origin. 
The  author  preserved  his  incognito,  and,  we  believe,  has  never  been  dis- 
covered.] 


k- 


EHOLD  this  ruin  !  'T  was  a  skull 
Once  of  ethereal  spirit  full. 
This  narrow  cell  was  Life's  retreat, 
This  space  was  Thought's  mysterious  seat. 
What  beauteous  visions  filled  this  spot, 
What  dreams  of  pleasure  long  forgot  ? 
Nor  hope,  nor  joy,  nor  love,  nor  fear. 
Have  left  one  trace  of  record  here. 


Beneath  this  mouldering  canopy 
Once  shone  the  bright  and  busy  eye, 
But  start  not  at  the  dismal  void,— 
If  social  love  that  eye  employed, 
If  with  no  lawless  fire  it  gleamed, 
But  through  the  dews  of  kindness  beamed, 
That  eye  shall  be  forever  bright 
When  stars  and  sun  are  sunk  in  night. 

(213)  


-t 


,^ 

ra          «. 

^                5) 

^ 

\ 

/ 

if) 

t 

214                         THE    CASKET   OF   POETICAL    GEMS. 

> 

"-„                                       — |-^i.'.*^«i 

-«r". 

■*V          ^                    '*6'.'^*' 

St 

Within  this  hollow  cavern  hung 
The  ready,  swift,  and  tuneful  tongue; 
If  Falsehood's  honey  is  disdained. 
And  when  it  could  not  praise  was  chained; 
If  bold  in  Virtue's  cause  it  spoke. 
Yet  gentle  concord  never  broke, — 
This  silent  tongue  shall  plead  for  thee 
When  Time  unveils  Eternity  ! 

• 

Say,  did  these  fingers  delve  the  mine  ? 
Or  with  the  envied  rubies  shine  ?  . 
To  hew  the  rock  or  w'ear  a  gem 
Can  little  now  avail  to  them. 
But  if  the  page  of  Truth  they  sought, 
Or  comfort  to  a  mourner  brought, 
These  hands  a  richer  meed  shall  claim 
Than  all  that  wait  on  Wealth  and  Fame. 

• 

, 

Avails  it  whether  bare  or  shod 
These  feet  the  paths  of  duty  trod  ? 
If  from  the  bowers  of  Ease  they  fled, 
To  seek  Affliction's  humble  shed; 
If  Grandeur's  guilty  bride  they  spurned, 
And  home  to  Virtue's  cot  returned, — 
These  feet  with  angel  wings  shall  vie, 
And  tread  the  palace  of  the  sky  ! 

^^- 

i 

. 

k 

1  °' 

/ 

\ 

«) 

V 

0      -"^ 

"•       0 

T" 

lA 


-McI3F^]\[EYE^'fCefIE3♦^^6;^I]\[.3l^^ 


BY    RICHARD   HENRY    STODDARD. 


I  % 

HERE  are  gains  for  all  our  losses, 

There  are  balms  for  all  our  pains, 
But  when  youth,  the  dream,  departs, 
It  takes  something  from  our  hearts, 
And  it  never  comes  again. 

We  are  stronger,  and  are  better 

Under  manhood's  sterner  reign; 
Still  we  feel  that  something  sweet 
Followed  youth,  with  flying  feet, 
And  will  never  come  again. 

Something  beautiful  is  vanished. 

And  we  sigh  for  it  in  vain; 
We  behold  it  everywhere, 
On  the  earth,  and  in  the  air. 
But  it  never  comes  again. 


(215) 


:M 


«» 


K" 


/ 


^WpE*fp@DERJ^^BEIiIi:E.3le<- 


BY    STARK. 


HE  sits  in  a  fashionable  parlor, 

And  rocks  in  her  easy  chair; 
She  is  clad  in  silks  and'satins, 

And  jewels  are  in  her  hair; 
She  winks  and  giggles  and  simpers, 

And  simpers  and  giggles  and  winks; 
And  though  she  talks  but  little, 

*T  is  a  good  deal  more  than  she  thinks. 


She  lies  abed  in  the  morning 

Till  nearly  the  hour  of  noon, 
Then  comes  down  snapping  and  snarling 

Because  she  was  called  so  soon; 
Her  hair  is  still  in  papers, 

Her  cheeks  still  fresh  with  paint, — 
Remains  of  her  last  night's  blushes, 

Before  she  intended  to  faint. 


She  dotes  upon  men  unshaven, 

And  men  with  "flowing  hair"; 

She  's  eloquent  over  mustaches. 
They  give  such  a  foreign  air. 

(216) 


^ 


^ 


THE    MODERN    BELLE. 

^ ♦ll'V'f^ <r- 

She  talks  of  Italian  music, 

And  falls  in  love  with  the  moon; 

And,  if  a  mouse  were  to  meet  her, 
She  would  sink  away  in  a  swoon. 

Her  feet  are  so  very  little. 

Her  hands  are  so  very  white, 
Her  jewels  so  very  heavy, 

And  her  head  so  very  light; 
Her  color  is  made  of  cosmetics 

(Though  this  she  will  niever  own), 
Her  body  is  made  mostly  of  cotton. 

Her  heart  is  made  wholly  of  stone. 

She  falls  in  love  with  a  fellow 

Who  swells  with  a  foreign  air; 
He  marries  her  for  her  money, 

She  marries  him  for  his  hair  ! 
One  of  the  very  best  matches, — 

Both  are  well  mated  in  life; 
S^e  's  got  a  fool  for  a  husband, 

He  's  got  a  fool  for  a  wife  I 


/ 
217 


K .  ^ 


V 


nM? ^ 


-McKi^giNe  'g-^Ne^giN-^is^. 


/ 


ANONYMOUS. 


OME  say  that  kissing  's  a  sin; 
But  I  think  it 's  nane  ava, 
For  kissing  has  wonn'd  in  this  world 
Since  ever  that  there  was  twa. 

O,  if  it  wasna  lawfu', 

Lawyers  wadna  allow  it; 

If  it  wasna  holy, 

Ministers  wadna  do  it. 

If  it  wasna  modest, 

Maidens  wadna  tak'  it; 

If  it  wasna  plenty, 

Puir  folk  wadna  get  it. 


/ 


(218) 


^ 


A 


^-^ 


^cIIEgg6]^g♦^F0]^^IIIFE.3l£<- 


BY    ROBERT    BURNS. 


'HOU  whom  chance  may  hither  lead, 

Be  thou  clad  in  rustic  weed. 

Be  thou  deck'd  in  silken  stole, 

'Grave  these  counsels  on  thy  soul. 
Life  is  but  a  day  at  most. 

Sprung  from  night,  in  darkness  lost; 
Hope  not  sunshine  every  hour, 
Fear  not  clouds  will  always  lower. 

As  Youth  and  Love,  with  sprightly  dance, 
Beneath  thy  morning-star  advance. 
Pleasure,  with  her  siren  air, 
May  delude  the  thoughtless  pair: 
Let  Prudence  bless  Enjoyment's  cup, 
Then  raptured  sip,  and  sip  it  up. 

As  thy  day  grows  warm  and  high, 
Life's  meridian  flaming  nigh, 
Dost  thou  spurn  the  humble  vale  ? 
Life's  proud  summits  wouldst  thou  scale  ? 
Check  thy  climbing  step,  elate, 
Evils  lurk  in  felon  wait: 
Dangers,  eagle-pinion'd,  bold. 
Soar  around  each  cliffy  hold, 
While  cheerful  Peace,  with  linnet  song, 
Chants  the  lowly  dells  among. 

As  the  shades  of  evening  close. 
Beckoning  thee  to  long  repose; 

\/ (219) \l 

-o a  \ 


-- S) 

Q ^. ___»___«^_-.^— — ^-^— — — 

1^—  ■  A 

220  THE   CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

As  Life  itself  becomes  disease, 
Seek  the  chimney-nook  of  ease. 
There  ruminate  with  sober  thought, 
On  all  thou'st  seen,  and  heard,  and  wrought; 
And  teach  the  sportive  younkers  round, 
.  Saws  of  experience,  sage  and  sound. 
Say,  man's  true,  genuine  estimate, 
The  grand  criterion  of  his  fate, 
Is  not — Art  thou  high  or  low  ? 
Did  thy  fortune  ebb  or  flow  ? 
Wast  thou  cottager  or  king? 
Peer  or  peasant? — No  such  thing! 
Did  many  talents  gild  thy  span  ? 
Or  frugal  nature  grudge  thee  one? 
Tell  them,  and  press  it  on  their  mind, 
As  thou  thyself  must  shortly  find. 
The  smile  or  frown  of  awful  Heaven, 
To  Virtue  or  to  Vice  is  given. 
Say,  "To  be  just,  and  kind,  and  wise. 
There  solid  self-enjoyment  lies; 
That  foolish,  selfish,  faithless  ways. 
Lead  to  the  wretched,  vile  and  base." 

Thus  resign'd  and  quiet,  creep 
To  the  bed  of  lasting  sleep; 
Sleep,  whence  thou  shalt  ne'er  awake, 
Night,  where  dawn  shall  never  break, 
Till  future  life,  future  no  more. 
To  light  and  joy  the  good  restore, 
To  light  and  joy  unknown  before. 

Stranger  go  !     Heaven  be  thy  guide  ! 
Quoth  the  beadsman  of  Nithside.* 


•These  beautiful  lines  were  written  in  "  Friars-Carse  "  Hermitage,  on 
the  banks  of  the  Nith. 


— s  \ 

\ 


■VQ_ 


\ 


■♦» 


-McLEWE^g.*<- 


BY    RALPH    WALDO    EMERSON, 


VERY  day  brings  a  ship, 
Every  ship  brings  a  word; 
Well  for  those  who  have  no  fear, 
Looking  seaward  well  assured 
That  the  word  the  vessel  brings 
Is  the  word  they  wish  to  hear. 


IK- 


(221) 


-^l 


K 


-A 


-McpYMN.3le<' 


BY    HAWKESWORTH. 


N  Sleep's  serene  oblivion  laid, 

I  safely  passed  the  silent  night; 
At  once  I  see  the  breaking  shade, 
V  And  drink  again  the  morning  light. 

New-born  I  bless  the  waking  hour. 

Once  more,  with  awe,  rejoice  to  be; 

My  conscious  soul  resumes  her  power, 

And  springs,  my  gracious  God,  to  Thee. 


O,  guide  me  through  the  various  maze 
My  doubtful  feet  are  doom'd  to  tread; 

And  spend  Thy  shield's  protecting  blaze, 
When  dangers  press  around  my  head. 

A  deeper  shade  will  soon  impend,   • 
A  deeper  sleep  my  eyes  oppress; 

Yet  still  Thy  strength  shall  me  defend, 
Thy  goodness  still  shall  deign  to  bless. 


^\ 


V 


That  deeper  shade  shall  fade  away, 

That  deeper  sleep  shall  leave  my  eyes; 

Thy  light  shall  give  eternal  day  ! 

Thy  love  the  rapture  of  the  skies ! 

(222) 


A^ 


^ 


<8 ^ 


->3lc66]iD.3l£^ 


BY    ABRAHAM    COWLEY. 


MIGHTY  pain  to  love  it  is, 
And  't  is  a  pain  that  love  to  miss, 
But,  of  all  pains,  the  greatest  pain 
It  is  to  love,  but  Love  in  vain. 
Virtue  now  nor  noble  blood. 
Nor  wit,  by  love  is  understood. 
Gold  alone  does  passion  move  ! 
Gold  monopolizes  love  ! 
A  curse  on  her  and  on  the  man 
Who  this  traffic  first  began  ! 
A  curse  on  him  who  found  the  ore  ! 
A  curse  on  him  who  digg'd  the  store  ! 
A  curse  on  him  who  did  refine  it ! 
A  curse  on  him  who  first  did  coin  it ! 
A  curse,  all  curses  else  above. 
On  him  who  used  it  first  in  love ! 
Gold  begets  in  brethren  hate; 
Gold,  in  families,  debate; 
Gold  does  friendship  separate; 
Gold  does  civil  wars  create. 
These  the  smallest  harms  of  it; 
Gold,  alas  !  does  love  beget. 


/ 


(223) 


^ 


>^ 


~A 


^¥pE^Ymii7I6E4PRE^CHE^.3|5<- 


FROM   THE   DESERTED   VILLAGE. 


BY    OLIVER    GOLDSMITH. 


/_ 


EAR  yonder  copse,    where  once  the  garden 

smiled, 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows 

wild; 
There,  where  a  few  torn   shrubs   the  place 

disclose. 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose, 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  ne'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his  place; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his. guest. 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast; 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud, 

(224) 


M 


L^ 


Claim'd  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd; 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away; 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or,  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd  his  crutch,  and  show'd  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to  grow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe; 
Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 
His  pity  gave  ere  cTiarity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 
And  e'en  his  failings  lean'd  to  Virtue's  side; 
But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call. 
He  watch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all. 
And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies; 
He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 
Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid. 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd. 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control, 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trenfbling  wretch  to  raise, 
And  his  last  faltering  accents  whispered  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran; 
E'en  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man's  smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest. 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest; 


226 


THE    CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 


'A 


u 


> 


-^'.-i''^ 


<• 


To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven: 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form, 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm, 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are  spread. 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head. 


X 


M 


^cMTTIj:E^B]REECPE3.3l£<- 


A   PIKE    COUNTY    VIEW    OF   SPECIAL   PROVIDENCE. 


,^ 


/ 


BY   JOHN    HAY. 


DON'T  go  much  on  religion, 

I  never  ain't  had  no  show; 
But  I've  got  a  middlin'  tight  grip,  sir, 

On  the  handful  o'  things  I  know. 
I  don't  pan  out  on  the  prophets 

And  free-will,  and  that  sort  of  thing,- 
But  I  b'lieve  in  God  and  the  angels, 

Ever  sence  one  night  last  spring. 


VL 


I  come  into  town  with  some  turnips, 

And  my  little  Gabe  came  along, — 
No  four-year-old  in  the  county 

Could  beat  him  for  pretty  and  strong. 
Peart  and  chipper  and  sassy. 

Always  ready  to  swear  and  fight, — 
And  I  'd  larnt  him  ter  chaw  terbacker, 

Just  to  keep  his  milk-teeth  white. 

The  snow  come  down  like  a  blanket 
As  I  passed  by  Taggart's  store; 

I  went  in  for  a  jug  of  molasses 
And  left  the  team  at  the  door. 

■  (227) 


A 


^ 

Q           .^ 

-«        w 

^ 

6| 

\ 

-        / 

0 

i 

228 

THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

* 

•«> 

*6    '^^                                                 ^ 

They  scared  at  something  and  started, — 

I  heard  one  little  squall, 
And  hell-to-split  over  the  prairie 

Went  team,  Little  Breeches  and  all. 

Hell-to-split  over  the  prairie  ! 

I  was  almost  froze  with  skeer; 
But  we  rousted  up  some  torches. 

And  searched  for  'em  far  and  near. 
At  last  we  struck  hosses  and  wagon, 

Snowed  under  a  soft  white  mound, 
Upsot,  dead  beat, — but  of  little  Gabe 

No  hide  nor  hair  was  found. 

■ 

And  here  all  hope  soured  on  me 
Of  my  fellow-critter's  aid, — 

I  jest  flopped  down  on  my  marrow-bones, 
Crotch-deep  in  the  snow,  and  prayed. 

' 

By  this,  the  torches  was  played  out. 

And  me  and  Isrul  Parr 
Went  off  for  some  wood  to  a  sheepfold 

That  he  said  was  somewhar  thar. 

1 

• 

We  found  it  at  last,  and  a  little  shed 

Where  they  shut  up  the  lambs  at  night. 
We  looked  in,  and  seen  them  huddled  thar, 

So  warm  and  sleepy  and  white; 
And  THAR  sot  Little  Breeches  and  chirped, 

As  peart  as  ever  you  see, 
"  I  want  a  chaw  of  terbacker. 

And  that 's  what 's  the  matter  of  me." 

» 

^e) 

/ 

N 

0 

V 

IS            ^" 

r 

^            6 

\* 

A 


A 


> 


LITTLE    BREECHES. 


229 


►^:«f^^ 


-^ 


How  did  he  git  thar  ?     Angels. 

He  could  never  have  walked  in  that  storm. 
They  jest  scooped  down  and  toted  him 

To  whar  it  was  safe  and  warm. 
And  1  think  that  saving  a  litt^  child, 

And  bringing  him  to  his  own, 
Is  a  darned  sight  better  business 

Than  loafing  around  The  Throne. 


V_ 


Al 


K 


"Tf 


->3lc3FpE^FIgpERMEi^.3}£<- 


BY'  CHARLES    KINGSLEY. 


r'HREE  fishers  went  sailing  out  into  the  west — 
Out  into  the  west  as  the  sun  went  down; 
Each  thought  of  the  woman  who  loved  him  the 
best, 
And  the  children  stood  watching  therti  out  of 
the  town. 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep; 

And  there  's  little  to  earn,  and  many  to  keep, 

Though  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 


Three  wives  sat  up  in  the  lighthouse  tower, 

And  trimmed  the  lamps  as  the  sun  went  down; 

And  they  looked  at  the  squall,  and  they  looked  at  the  shower, 
And  the  rack  it  came  rolling  up,  ragged  and  brown; 

But  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, 

Though  storms  be  sudden,  and  waters  deep. 
And  the  harbor  bar  be  moaning. 


/ 


Three  corpses  lay  out  in  the  shining  sands 

In  the  morning  gleam  as  the  tide  went  down; 

And  the  women  are  watching  and  wringing  their  hands. 
For  those  who  will  never  come  back  to  the  town; 

For  men  must  work,  and  women  must  weep, — 

And  the  sooner  it 's  over,  the  sooner  to  sleep, — 
And  good  by  to  the  bar  and  its  moaning. 

(230) 


\Furf 


lllL  FISHER  BOY. 


^ 


^|:^DD^Eggv¥0vfpEv6CE^]\[.*<- 


BY    BARRY   CORNWALL. 


O  THOU  vast  Ocean !  ever-sounding  Sea ! 

Thou  symbol  of  a  drear  immensity  ! 
Thou  thing  that  windest  round  the  solid  world 
Like  a  huge  animal,  which,  downward  hurled 
From  the  black  clouds,  lies  weltering  and  alone, 
Lashing  and  writhing  till  its  strength  be  gone  ! 

(231) 


A^ 


^ 


- 


s ^ 

232  THE   CASKET   OF    POKTICAL   GEMS. 

-.^ ►j|":-4^- ^ 

Thy  voice  is  like  the  thunder,  and  thy  sleep 

Is  as  a  giant's  slumber,  loud  and  deep. 

Thou  speakest  in  the  east  and  in  the  west 

At  once,  and  on  thy  heavily  laden  breast 

Fleets  come  and  go,  and  shapes  that  have  no  life 

Or  motion,  yet  are  moved  and  meet  in  strife. 

The  earth  has  naught  of  this:  no  chance  or  change 

Ruffles  its  surface,  and  no  spirits  dare 

Give  answer  to  the  tempest-wakened  air; 

But  o'er  its  wastes  the  weakly  tenants  range 

At  will,  and  wound  its  bosom  as  they  go:  • 

Ever  the  same,  it  hath  no  ebb,  no  flow: 

But  in  their  stated  rounds  the  seasons  come, 

And  pass  like  visions  to  their  wonted  home; 

And  come  again,  and  vanish;  the  young  Spring 

Looks  ever  bright  with  leaves  and  blossoming; 

And  Winter  always  winds  his  sullen  horn, 

When  the  wild  Autumn,  with  a  look  forlorn, 

Dies  in  his  stormy  manhood;  and  the  skies 

Weep,  and  flowers  sicken,  when  the  summer  flies. 

O,  wonderful  thou  art,  great  element, 

And  fearful  in  thy  spleeny  humors  bent. 

And  lovely  in  repose  !  thy  summer  form 

Is  beautiful,  and  when  thy  silver  waves 

Make  music  in  earth's  dark  and  winding  caves, 

I  love  to  wander  on  thy  pebbled  beach. 

Marking  the  sunlight  at  the  evening  hour. 

And  hearken  to  the  thoughts  thy  waters  teach, — 

Eternity — Eternity. —  and  Power. 


"71 


k: —  M 

^  ^^ 5)N. 


.»• 


DI^.^DDIg@J\[  ^IiE;^^NDE^'^  M@N@^YIiIi;^BLE 


[The  following  curious  illustration  of  the  power  of  words  in  the  English 
language  has  long  been  out  of  print] : — 


HINK  not  that  strength  lies  in  the  big,  round  word, 
Or  that  the  brief  and  plain  must  needs  be  weak. 
To  whom  can  this  be  true  who  once  has  heard 

The  cry  for  help,  the  tongue  that  all  men  speak 
When  want,  or  woe,  or  fear  is  in  the  throat, 

So  that  each  word  gasped  out  is  like  a  shriek 
Press'd  from  the  sore  heart,  or  a  strange,  wild  note, 

Sung  by  some  fay  or  fiend !     There  is  a  strength 
Which  dies  if  stretched  too  far  or  spun  too  fine, 

Which  has  more  height  than  breadth,  more  depth  than 
length. 
Let  but  this  force  of  thought  and  speech  be  mine. 

And  he  that  will  may  take  the  sleek,  fat  phrase, 

Which  glows  and  burns  not,  though  it  gleam  and  shine; 

Light,  but  not  heat — a  flash  without  a  blaze.    • 


/i 


Nor  is  it  mere  strength  that  the  short  word  boasts: 
It  serves  of  more  than  fight  or  storm  to  tell — 

The  roar  of  waves  that  clash  on  rock-bound  coasts, 
The  crash  of  tall  trees  when  the  wild  winds  swell, 

(233) 


\ 


,f- 


K 


A 


234 


THE   CASKET   OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 


> 


►jf-:-4^^ 


< 


The  roar  of  guns,  the  groans  of  men  that  die 

On  blood-stained  fields.     It  has  a  voice  as  well 
For  them  that  far  off  on  their  sick  beds  lie, 

For  them  that  weep,  for  them  that  mourn  the  dead. 
For  them  that  laugh,  and  dance,  and  clap  tlieir  hand; 

To  joy's  quick  step,  as  well  as  grief's  low  tread. 
The  sweet,  plain  words  we  learnt  at  first  keep  time. 

And  though  the  theme  be  sad,  or  gay,  or  grand, 
With  each,  with  all,  these  may  be  made  to  chime, 

In  thought,  or  speech,  or  song,  or  prose,  or  rhyme. 


A 


• 

^ 

©,          ». 

- 

> 

6\ 

\ 

/ 

P 

( 

-Mcg@N6^@F^¥pE^DEC^N¥E1^..3le<: 

» 

There  was  an  old  decanter, 

and    its    mouth   was    gaping 

wide;    the    rosy    wine 

had  ebbed  away                                          , 

and  left 

its  crys- 

tal side; 

and  the  wind 

went  humming, 

humming; 

up  and 

down  the 

sides  it  flew. 

and  through  the 

reed-like, 

hollow  neck 

the  wildest  notes  it 

blew.     I  placed  it   in  the 

window,  where  the   blast  was 

blowing  free,   and  fancied  that  its 

pale  mouth  sang  the  queerest  strains 

to    me.  ,  "They   tell   me  —  puny   con- 

querors!—the  Plague   has   slain  his  ten, 

ahd  War   his   hundred    thousands  of  the 

very   best  of  men;    but   I"  —  'twas    thus 

*          the    bottle     spoke — "but     I     have     con- 

quered more  than   all  your   famous  con- 

querors, so  feared  and   famed    of  yore. 

r 

Then  come,   ye  youths  and  maidens, 
come  drink  from  out  my  cup,  the  bev- 
erage that  dulls  the  brain  and  burns 
the  spirit  up;  that  puts  to  shame 
the  conquerors  that  slay  their 
scores  below,  for  this  has  del- 
uged millions  with  the  lava 
tide  of  woe.    Though  in  the 
path    of    battle,    darkest 
waves  of  blood  may  roll, 
yet  while  I  killed  the  body 
I  have  damned  the  very 
soul.     The  cholera,   the 
sword,    such      ruin     never 
wrought,   as  I,    in   mirth  or 
malice,    on    the  innocent   have 
brought.      And    still    I   breathe 
upon     them,      and     they     shrink 
before      my       breath;      and       year 
by      year      my        thousands     tread 

\ 

i 

THE   TERRIBLE    ROAD   TO   DEATH. 

& 

/ 

(235) 

\ 

-    ^    . 

•7 

- 

^              C 

\* 

(!)                • 

r 

■ 

.^> 

? 

,«^                                                                                                                                                                -*— 

^ 

6 

< 

\ 

-McmNE3-f^p-fC§apiiE'F3.3iE-^ 

~y 

f 

FROM    POPE. 

What,  and  how  great  the  virtue  of  the  art, 

To  live  on  little  with  a  cheerful  heart. 

Between  excess  and  famine  lies  a  mean, 

Plain,  but  not  sordid,  though  not  splendid,  clean. 

Its  proper  power  to  hurt  each  creature  feels: 

Bulls  aim  their  horns,  and  asses  kick  their  heels. 

Here  Wisdom  calls,  "  Seek  virtue  first,  be  bold; 

As  gold  to  silver,  virtue  is  to  gold." 

"Let  lands  and  houses  have  what  lords  they  will. 

Let  us  be  fixed  and  our  own  masters  still. 

*T  is  the  first  virtue  vices  to  abhor. 

And  the  .first  wisdom  to  be  fool  no  more. 

< 

Long  as  to  him  who  works  for  debt,  the  day. 

i 

1    ^ 

1^ 

(236) 

\ 

Is 

V 

O 

~^"                                                                                           -^— 

a 

N* 

, 

, 

^ 

a 

_*^                                                                                                                —         ^> 

^. 

6\ 

\ 

•  / 

|0 

\ 

LINES    AND   COUPLETS.                                       237 

> 

-«^                             ''*($  .  ^•^                            Si 

Not  to  go  back  is  somewhat  to  advance, 

And  men,  must  walk,  at  least,  before  they  dance. 

True,  conscious  honor  is  to  feel  no  sin; 

He  's  armed  without  that  's  innocent  within. 

For  virtue's  self  may  too  much  zeal  be  had, 

The  worst  of  madmen  is  a  saint  run  mad. 

If  wealth  alone  can  make  and  keep  us  blest, 

Still,  still  be  getting;  never,  never  rest. 

That  God  of  nature  who  within  us  still 

Inclines  our  actions,  not  constrains  our  will. 

It  is  not  poetry,  but  prose  run  mad. 

Pretty  in  amber  to  observe  the  forms 

Of  hair,  or  straws,  or  dirt,  or  grubs,  or  worms; 

The  things,  we  know,  are  neither  rich  nor  rare,   • 

But  wonder  how  the  mischief  they  got  there  ! 

Do  good  by  stealth,  and  blush  to  find  it  fame. 

Curst  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow. 

< 

That  tends  to  make  one  honest  man  my  foe. 

/" 

\ 

^-•- 

0 

-^                                                                                         ^" 2 

\^ 

<5 ». 


238  THE   CASKET    OF    POETICAL   GEMS. 

-^ ►£!":•> <- 

Who  shames  a  scribbler  ?  Break  one  cobweb  through, 
He  spins  the  slight,  self-pleasing  thread  anew; 
Destroy  his  fib  or  sophistry,  in  vain, 
The  creature  's  at  his  dirty  work  again, 
Throned  in  the  centre  of  his  thin  designs, 
Proud  of  a  vast  extent  of  flimsy  lines. 


He  who,  still  wanting,  though  he  lives  on  theft, 
Steals  much,  spends  little,  yet  has  nothing  left. 


What  future  bliss  He  gives  thee  not  to  know, 
But  gives  that  hope  to  be  thy  blessing  now. 


All  nature  is  but  art,  unknown  to  thee, 

All  chance,  direction  which  thou  canst  not  see. 


'T  is  education  forms  the  common  mind', 
Just  as  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  's  inclined. 


Manners  with  fortunes,  humors  turn  with  climes, 
Tenets  with  books,  and  principles  with  times. 


Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  ? 


And  then  mistook  reverse  of  wrong  for  right 


That  secret  rare  between  the  extremes  to  move. 
Of  mad  good-nature  and  of  mean  self-love. 

1^  ^11 


K — 


LINES    AND    COUPLETS.  239 

■^ -^-A^ <- 

Ye  little  stars,  hide  your  diminished  rays. 


Who  builds  a  church  to  God,  and  not  to  fame, 
Will  never  mark  the  marble  with  his  name. 


'T  is  strange  the  music  should  his  cares  employ 
To  gain  those  riches  he  can  ne'er  enjoy. 


Something  there  is  more  needful  than  expense, 
And  something  previous  e'en  to  taste, —  't  is  sense. 


In  all  let  Nature  never  be  forgot, 
But  treat  the  goddess  like  a  modest  fair. 
Not  over-dress  nor  leave  her  wholly  bare; 
Let  not  each  beauty  everywhere  be  spied. 
Where  half  the  skill  is  decently  to  hide. 


- 


Q ^ 


K 


.    -Htc^IiBaMWE^gEg.3te<- 


There  are  ten  thousand  tones  and  signs 

We  hear  and  see,  but  none  defines — 

Involuntary  sparks  of  thought 

Which  strike  from  out  the  heart  o'erwrought, 

And  form  a  strange  intelligence 

Alike  mysterious  and  intense; 

Which  link  the  burning  chain  that  binds, 

Without  their  will,  young  hearts  and  minds, 

Conveying,  as  an  electric  wire, 

We  know  not  how,  the  absorbing  fire. 


k. 


Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  its  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove: 
O  no !  it  is  an  ever  fixed  mark, 
That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken; 
It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark. 
Whose  worth 's  unknown,  although  its  height  be  taken. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


There  is  a  comfort  in  the  strength  of  Love; 
'T  will  make  a  thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart. 

WORDSWORTH. 

(240) 


-M 


\ 


N  7\ 

ALBUM   VERSES.  241 

-^ ►jf-:-|j- ^ 

Farewell,  oh  farewell,  but  whenever  you  give 

A  thought  to  the  days  that  are  gone, 
Of  the  bright  sunny  things  that  in  memory  live 

Let  a  thought  of  the  writer  be  one. 
The  hope  is  but  humble — he  asks  but  a  share, 

But  a  part  of  thy  memories  to  be, 
While  no  future  to  hhn  can  in  rapture  compare 

To  the  past,  made  enchanting  by  thee. 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 


The  joys  of  life  are  heightened  by  a  friend; 
The  woes  of  life  are  lessened  by  a  friend; 
In  all  the  cares  of  life,  we  by  a  friend 
Assistance  find  —  who'd  be  without  a  friend? 

WANDESFORD. 


Why  should  I  blush  to  own  I  love? 
'T  is  Love  that  rules  the  realms  above. 
Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all 
That  virtue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall? 

Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade. 
Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betrayed? 
Why  the  stern  brow  deceitful  move, 
When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 

Is  it  a  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
On  passions  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove. 
'T  is  painful,  but 't  is  sweet  to  love  ! 

HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


^ 


1 

^■v 

fS               -^ 

^-— 

0 

^ 

'  «l 

\ 

~7i 

P 

^ 

242 

THE    CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

} 

,...p^ 

*fo    •    ,;)•                                                 "* 

« I  WILL  not  say  I'd  give  the  world 

To  win  those  charms  divine; 

I  will  not  say  I'd  give  the  world — 

The  world  it  is  not  mine. 

The  vow  that's  made  thy  love  to  win 

In  simple  truth  shall  be; 

My  heart  is  all  I  have  to  give, 

And  give  that  all  to  thee." 

But  while  I  knelt  at  beauty's  shrine, 

And  love's  devotion  paid. 

' 

I  felt  't  was  but  an  empty  vow 

That  passion's  pilgrim  made; 

For  while,  in  raptur'd  gazing  lost. 

To  give  my  heart  I  swore. 

One  glance  from  her  soon  made  me  feel 

My  heart  was  mine  no  more. 

SAMUEL    LOVER. 

Friendship  is  power  and  riches  all  to  me; 

Friendship  's  another  element  of  life; 

Water  and  fire  not  of  more  general  use 

To  the  support  and  comfort  of  the  world 

Than  Friendship  to  the  being  of  my  joy: 

' 

,  I  would  do  everything  -to  secure  a  friend. 

, 

Silence  in  love  betrays  more  woe 

Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty; 

A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know. 

Deserves  a  double  pity. 

i 

SIR    HENRY   WOTTON. 

1 

^  g 

/ 

\ 

f) 

^ 

(5 •- 

^ 

a 

-v 

• 

The  dart  of  Love  was  feather'd  first 

From  Folly's  wing,  they  say, 
Until  he  tried  his  shaft  to  shoot 

In  Beauty's  heart  one  day; 
He  miss'd  the  maid  so  oft,  't  is  said, 

His  aim  became  untrue, 
And  Beauty  laugh'd,  as  his  last  shaft 

He  from  his  quiver  drew; 
"In  vain,"  said  she,  "you  shoot  at  me, 

You  little  spiteful  thing — 
The  feather  on  your  shaft  I  scorn, 

When  pluck'd  from  Folly's  wing." 

But  Cupid  soon  fresh  arrows  found 

And  fitted  to  his  string, 
And  each  new  shaft  he  feather'd  from 

His  own  bright  glossy  wing; 
He  shot  until  no  plume  was  left 

To  waft  him  to  the  sky, 
And  Beauty  smiled  upon  the  child, 

When  he  no  more  could  fly; 
"  Now,  Cupid,  I  am  thine,"  she  said, 

"  Leave  off  thy  archer  play. 
For  Beauty  yields — when  she  is  sure 

Love  will  not  fly  away." 

SAMUEL  LOVER. 


Our  grandsire,  ere  of  Eve  possess'd. 

Alone,  and  e'en  in  Paradise  unblest, 

With  mournful  looks  the  blissful  scene  surveyed, 

And  wandered  in  the  solitary  shade; 

The  Maker  saw,  took  pity,  and  bestowed 

Woman,  the  last,  the  best  reserved  of  God. 


k:. 


\ 


244  THE   CASKET    OF    POETICAL    GEMS. 

--> -jf-:-!:- <■ 

I  HOLD  it  true,  whate'er  befall — 
I  feel  it  when  I  sorrow  most — 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 

TENNYSON. 


kL 


To  Woman,  whose  best  books  are  human  hearts. 
Wise  Heaven  a  genius  less  profound  imparts; 
His  awful — hers  is  lovely^  his  should  tell 
How  thunderbolts,  and  hers  how  roses  fell. 
Her  rapid  mind  decides  while  his  debates; 
She  feels  a  truth  that  he  but  calculates. 
He,  provident,  averts  approaching  ill; 
She  snatches  present  good  with  ready  skill. 
That  active  perseverance  his,  which  gains; 
And  hers,  that  passive  patience  which  sustains. 


Yes  !     Love  indeed  is  light  from  heaven, 
A  spark  of  that  immortal  fire 

With  angels  shared — to  mortals  given. 
To  lift  from  earth  our  low  desire. 

Devotion  wafts  the  mind  above. 

But  heaven  itself  descends  in  love; 

A  feeling  from  the  Godhead  caught. 

To  wean  from  self  each  sordid  thought; 

A  ray  of  Him  who  formed  the  whole; 

A  glory  circling  round  the  soul. 


Love  is  a  subject  to  himself  alone. 

And  knows  no  other  empire  than  his  own.  ' 


LANSDOWNE. 


)  \ 


K" 


ALBUM    VERSES. 


^ ^^-.'T^-* 

Lives  there  the  man  too  cold  to  prove 
The  joys  of  Friendship  and  of  Love  ? 
Then  let  him  die;  when  these  are  fled, 
Scarce  do  we  differ  from  the  dead. 


/ 


245 


<■ 


Albums  are  records,  kept  by  gentle  dames, 
To  show  us  that  their  friends  can  write  their  names; 
That  Miss  can  draw,  or  brother  John  can  write 
"Sweet  lines,"  or  that  they  know  a  Mr.  White. 
The  lady  comes,  with  lowly  grace  upon  her. 
"  'T  will  be  so  kind,"  and  "  do  her  book  such  honor; " 
We  bow,  smile,  deprecate,  protest,  read  o'er 
The  names  to  see  what  has  been  done  before. 
Wish  to  say  something  wonderful,  but  can't. 
And  write,  with  modest  glory,  "  William  Grant." 
Johnson  succeeds,  and  Thompson,  Jones,  and  Clarke, 
And  Cox  with  an  original  remark 
Out  of  the  speaker;— then  come  John's  "  sweetjines," 
Fanny's  "sweet  airs,"  and  Jenny's  "sweet  designs:" 
Then  Hobbs,  Cobbs,  Dodds,  Lord  Strut,  and  Lady  Brisk, 
And,  with  a  flourish  underneath  him,  Fisk. 

Alas  !  why  sit  I  here,  committing  jokes 
On  social  pleasures  and  good-humor'd  folks, 
That  see  far  better  with  their  trusting  eyes. 
Than  all  the  Winkings  of  the  would-be  wise  ? 
Albums  are,  after  all,  pleasant  inventions, 
Make  friends  more  friendly,  grace  one's  good  intentions, 
Brighten  dull  names,  give  great  ones  kindred  looks, 
Nay,  now  and  then  produce  right  curious  books. 
And  make  the  scoff"er  (now  the  case  with  me) 
Blush  to  look  round  on  deathless  company. 

LEIGH    HUNT. 


\ 


-^ 


\ 


Beware  of  sudden  friendship;  't  is  a  flower 
That  thrives  but  in  the  sun;  its  bud  is  fair, 
And  it  may  blossom  in  the  summer  hour, 
But  winter's  withering  tempests  will  not  bear. 
True  Friendship  is  a  tree,  whose  lasting  strength 
Is  slow  of  growth,  but  proves,  whate'er  befall, 
Through  life  our  hope  and  haven,  and  at  length 
Yields  but  to  death — the  power  that  conquers  all. 


As  o'er  the  cold  sepulchral  stone 

Some  name  arrests  the  passer-by, 
Thus,  when  thou  view'st  this  page  alone, 

May  mine  attract  thy  pensive  eye  ! 
And  when  by  thee  that  name  is  read, 

Perchance  in  some  succeeding  year, 
Reflect  on  me  as  on  the  dead, 

And  think  my  heart  is  buried  here. 


Here  is  one  leaf  reserved  for  me. 
From  all  thy  sweet  memories  free; 
And  here  my  simple  song  might  tell 
The  feelings  thou  must  guess  so  well. 
But  could  I  thus  within  thy  mind 
One  little  vacant  corner  find. 
Where  no  impression  yet  is  seen, 
Where  no  memorial  yet  has  been; 
O,  it  should  be  my  sweetest  care 
To  write  my  name  forever  there !' 


A 


ALBUM   VERSES.  247 


■5 ►^:-4^< 


A  PEPPER-CORN  is  very  small,  but  seasons  every  dinner 
More  than  all  other  condiments,  although   't  is  sprinkled 

thinner; 
Just  so  a  little  Woman  is,  if  Love  will  let  you  win  her — 
There  's  not  a  joy  in  all  the  world  you  will  not  find  within 

her. 

And  as  within  the  little  rose  you  find  the  richest  dyes, 
And  in  the  little  grain  of  gold  much  price  and  value  lies, 
As  from  a  little  balsam  much  odor  doth  arise. 
So  in  a  little  Woman  there  's  a  taste  of  paradise. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH  OF  DE  HITA. 


Ye  are  stars  of  the  night,  ye  are  gems  of  the  morn. 

Ye  are  dewdrops  whose  lustre  illumines  the  thorn; 

And  rayless  that  night  is,  that  morning  unblest. 

When  no  beams  in  your  eye  light  up  peace  in  the  breast. 

And  the  sharp  thorn  of  sorrow  sinks  deep  in  the  heart, 

Till  the  sweet  lip  of  Woman  assuages  the  smart; 

'T  is  hers  o'er  the  couch  of  misfortune  to  bend, 

In  fondness  a  lover,  in  firmness  a  friend; 

And  prosperity's  hour,  be  it  ever  confessed, 

From  Woman  receives  both  refinement  and  zest; 

And  adorn'd  by  the  bays  or  enwreath'd  with  the  willow. 

Her  smile  is  our  need,  and  her  bosom  our  pillow. 


Love  !     What  a  volume  in  a  word  !  an  ocean  in  a  tear ! 
A  seventh  heaven  in  a  glance  !  a  whirlwind  in  a  sigh  ! 
The  lightning  in  a  touch — a  millennium  in  a  moment ! 
What  concentrated  joy,  or  woe,  in  blest  or  blighted  love  ! 

TUPPER. 


, 

. 

^> 

n         ».                                                                                                         ,^ 

«) 

^, 

6 

\ 

y 

P 

\ 

248                        THE    CASKET   OF   POETICAL   GEMS. 

1%                                             .'^j.'-r^N                                             ^' 

> 

—  *>                             '^li'.^*'                             St 

Die  when  you  will,  you  need  not  wear 

At  heaven's  court  a  form  more  fair 

' 

Than  beauty  here  on  earth  has  given. 

Keep  but  the  lovely  looks  we  see — 

The  voice  we  hear — and  you  will  be 

An  angel  ready  made  for  heaven. 

I  HAVE  seen  the  wild  flowers  springing, 

In  wood,  and  field,  and  glen. 

Where  a  thousand  birds  were  singing. 

And  my  thoughts  were  of  thee  then; 

For  there  's  nothing  gladsome  round  me, 

Or  beautiful  to  see, 

Since  thy  beauty's  spell  has  bound  me. 

But  is  eloquent  of  thee. 

RICHARD  HOWITT. 

Friend  after  friend  departs; 

Who  hath  not  lost  a  friend  ? 

There  is  no  union  here  of  hearts 

That  finds  not  here  an  end. 

Were  this  frail  world  our  only  rest, 

Living  or  dying,  none  were  blest. 

Thus  star  by  star  declines. 

Till  all  are  passed  away, 

As  morning  high  and  higher  shines 

To  pure  and  perfect  day; 

Nor  sink  those  stars  in  empty  night, 

J 

They  lose  themselves  in  heaven's  own  light. 

MONTGOMERY, 

* 

& 

/ 

\ 

\9 

■r^ 

C9           -'■                                                                                                                                     !,,_ 

0 

■ 

K- 


.M: 


/ 

ALBUM    VERSES.  249 

>— ^^-fvi"*-^ ^r- 

Doubt  thou  the  stars  are  fire; 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move; 
Doubt  Truth  to  be  a  liar; 

But  never  doubt  I  love  ! 

•«  SHAKESPEARE. 


For  me  I'm  woman's  slave  confessed — 
Without  her,  hopeless  and  unblest; 
And  so  are  all,  gainsay  who  can, 
For  what  would  be  the  life  of  man, 
If  left  in  desert  or  in  isle, 
Unlightened  up  by  beauty's  smile  ? 
Even  tho'  he  boasted  monarch's  name, 
And  o'er  his  own  sex  reign'd  supreme, 
With  thousands  bending  to  his  sway. 
If  lovely  Woman  were  away. 
What  were  his  life  ?     What  could  it  be  ? 
A  vapor  on  a  shoreless  sea; 
A  troubled  cloud  in  darkness  toss'd, 
Amongst  the  waste  of  waters  lost; 
A  ship  deserted  in  the  gale, 
Without  a  steersman  or  a  sail, 
A  star,  or  beacon-light  before. 
Or  hope  of  haven  evermore; 
A  thing  without  a  human  tie. 
Unloved  to  live,— unwept  to  die. 


Oh,  fairest  of  creation  !  last  and  best 
Of  all  God's  works  !  creature  in  whom  excelled 
Whatever  can  to  sight  or  thought  be  form'd 
Holy,  divine,  good,  amiable,  or  sweet ! 

MILTON. 


\ 


\ 


Q ^ 


250  THE    CASKET   OF   POETICAL    GEMS. 

-^ -ifv4^^ ■ ^- 

I  HAVE  heard  of  reasons  manifold 
Why  Love  must  needs  be  blind; 

But  this  the  best  of  all  I  hold — 
His  eyes  are  in  his  mind. 

What  outward  form  and  feature  are 

He  guesseth  but  in  part; 
But  what  within  is  good  and  fair 

He  seeth  with  the  heart. 

S.  T.   COLERIDGE. 


Woman's  truth  and  woman's  love 

Trusting  ever, 

Faithless  never, 
Blest  on  earth,  is  blest  above. 

Ministering  oft  in  sorrow's  hour, 
'  Loving  truly. 
Fondly,  duly 
Proving  e'er  affection's  power. 

Ne'er  forgetting,  ne'er  forgot; 

Richest  treasures, 

Joyful  pleasures 
Ever  be  her  happy  lot. 


The  light  that  beams  from  Woman's  eye, 

And  sparkles  through  her  tear, 
Responds  to  that  impassion'd  sigh 

Which  love  delights  to  hear. 
'T  is  the  sweet  language  of  the  soul, 

On  which  a  voice  is  hung. 
More  eloquent  than  ever  stole 

From  saint's  or  poet's  tongue. 


:Ml 


. 

■ 

, 

^ 

C? 

— *- 

^ 

G) 

^ 

6j 

\ 

*^ 

W^ 

' 

ALBUM   VERSES. 

251 

• 

-^                                            '*6    .    c)- 

■<*• 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart  be  mine, 

That  beams  a  charm  around; 

Where'er  it  sheds  its  ray  divine, 

Is  all  enchanted  ground  ! 

No  fiend  of  care  may  enter  there, 

Tho'  Fate  employ  her  art: — 

Her  power,  tho'  mighty,  bows  to  i/it'ne, 

Bright  sunshine  of  the  heart ! 

SAMUEL  LO\ 

rER. 

Faith  is  the  star  that  gleams  above, 

Hope  is  the  flower  that  buds  below; 

Twin  tokens  of  celestial  love 

That  out  from  Nature's  bosom  grow; 

And  still  alike,  in  sky,  on  sod, 

That  star  and  blossom  ever  point  to  God. 

KE 

NT. 

1 

As  half  in  shade,  and  half  in  sun, 

This  world  along  its  path  advances, 

Oh !  may  that  side  the  sun  shines  on 

Be  all  that  ever  meets  thy  glances; 

May  Time,  who  casts  his  blight  on  all, 

And  daily  dooms  some  joy  to  death. 

On  thee  let  years  so  gently  fall 

They  shall  not  crush  one  flower  beneath. 

MOO 

RE. 

Longest  joys  won't  last  forever — 

Make  the  most  of  every  day; 

Youth  and  beauty  Time  will  sever. 

I 

i 

But  Content  hath  no  decay. 

©■   / 

r 

N 

L 

^' 

to 

— w- 

— s 

v*" 

Ye  flowers  that  droop,  forsaken  by  the  spring; 
Ye  birds  that,  forsaken  by  the  summer,  cease  to  sing; 
Ye  trees  that  fade  when  autumn  heats  remove, 
Say,  is  not  Absence  death  to  those  who  love? 

POPE. 


Not  purple  violets  in  the  early  spring 
Such  graceful  sweets,  such  tender  beauties  bring; 
The  orient  blush  which  does  thy  cheeks  adorn. 
Makes  coral  pale — vies  with  the  rosy  morn. 

LEE. 


This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told, 
Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold; 
Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  fortune  placed, 
Can  rear  a  garden  in  a  desert  waste. 

HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE. 


Duty  has  pleasures  with  no  satiety. 

Duties  fulfilled  are  always  pleasures  to  the  memory. 

Duty  makes  pleasure  doubly  sweet  by  contrast. 

HALIBURTON. 


There  is  a  jewel  which  no  Indian  mine  can  buy, 
No  chemic  art  can  counterfeit; 
It  makes  men  rich  in  greatest  poverty. 
Makes  water  wine,  turns  wooden  cups  to  gold. 
The  homely  whistle  to  sweet  music's  strain; 
Seldom  it  comes — ^to  few  from  Heaven  sent— 
That  much  in  little — all  in  thought — Content. 

WILBYE. 


Hope  is  the  lover's  staff: 

Walk  thou  with  that, 

And  manage  it  against  despairing  thought. 

SHAKESPEARE. 


O  GRANT  me,  Heav'n,  a  middle  state. 
Neither  too  humble  nor  too  great; 
More  than  enough  for  nature's  ends, 
With  something  left  to  treat  my  friends. 


MALLET. 


What  will  it  matter 

By  and  by, 
Whether  our  path  below  was  bright; 
Whether  it  shone  through  dark  or  light — 
Under  a  gray  or  golden  sky — 
What  will  it  matter, 

By  and  by  ? 


Thou'rt  fairer  than  the  poets  can  express. 
Or  happy  painters  fancy  when  they  love. 


Love  is  to  my  impassion'd  soul 
Not,  as  with  others,  a  mere  part 
Of  its  existence;  but  the  whole —  • 
The  very  life-breath  of  my  heart. 


So  like. the  chances  are  of  Love  and  War, 
That  they  alone  in  this  distinguished  are: 
In  Love,  the  victors  from  the  vanquished  fly — 
They  fly  that  wound,  and  they  pursue  that  die. 


V_ 


In  Christian  world  Mary  the  garland  wears  ! 

Rebecca  sweetens  on  a  Hebrew  ear; 

Quakers  for  pure  Priscilla  are  more  clear; 

And  the  light  Gaul  by  amorous  Ninon  swears. 

Among  the  lesser  lights  how  Lucy  shines  ! 

What  air  of  fragrance  Rosamond  throws  round  ! 

How  like  a  hymn  doth  sweet  Cecilia  sound  ! 

Of  Marthas  and  of  Abigails  few  lines 

Have  bragg'd  in  verse.    Of  coarsest  household  stuff 

Should  homely  Joan  be  fashion'd.     But  can 

You  Barbara  resist,  or  Marian  ? 

And  is  not  Clare  for  love  excuse  enough  ? 

Yet,  by  my  faith  in  numbers,  I  profess 

These  all  than  Saxon  Edith  please  me  less. 

CHARLES  LAMB. 


Small  service  is  true  service  where  it  lasts: 
Of  friends,  however,  scorn  not  one: 

The  daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts, 

Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  sun. 


Well  chosen  friendship,  the  most  noble 
Of  virtues,  all  our  joys  makes  double, 
And  into  halves  divides  our  trouble. 


Love  reckons  hours  for  months,  and  days  for  years; 
And  every  little  absence  is  an  age. 


A  THING  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever; 
Its  loveliness  increases;  it  will  never 
Pass  into  nothingness. 

KEATS. 


They  say  that  Love  had  once  a  book 
(The  urchin  likes  to  copy  you) 

Where  all  who  came  the  pencil  took, 
And  wrote,  like  us,  a  line  or  two. 

'T  was  innocence,  the  maid  divine. 

Who  kept  this  volume  bright  and  fair, 

And  saw  that  no  unhallowed  line 

Or  thought  profane  should  enter  there. 

Beneath  the  touch  of  Hope,  how  soft, 
How  light  the  magic  pencil  ran  ! 

Till  Fear  would  come,  alas !  as  oft, 

And,  trembling,  close  what  Hope  began. 

A  tear  or  two  had  dropped  from  Grief; 

And  Jealousy  would,  now  and  then, 
Ruffle  in  haste  some  snowy  leaf. 

Which  Love  had  still  to  smooth  again. 

But  oh  !  there  was  a  blooming  boy 
Who  often  turned  the  pages  o'er. 

And  wrote  therein  such  words  of  joy 

As  all  who  read  still  sighed  for  more. 

And  Pleasure  was  this  spirit's  name; 

And  though  so  soft  his  voice  and  look, 
Yet  Innocence,  whene'er  he  came. 

Would  tremble  for  her  spotless  book  ! 

For  oh  !  't  would  make  you  weep  to  see 
How  Pleasure's  honeyed  hand  had  torn 

And  stained  the  page  where  Modesty 
A  rose's  bud  had  freshly  drawn. 


And  Fancy's  emblems  lost  their  glow; 

■  And  Hope's  sweet  lines  were  all  defaced: 
And  Love  himself  could  hardly  know 
What  Love  himself  had  lately  traced. 

Beware  of  Pleasure  and  his  lures; 

In  virtue's  ranks  he  finds  no  place. 
Those  pleasures  only  should  be  yours 

That  spring  from  thoughts  and  deeds  of  grace. 

ADAPTED   FROM   MOORE. 


V 


m 

DATE  DUE 

m 

m 

m 

^ 

9 

9 

fl 

fl 

1 

g 

CAYLORD 

A    000  548  937     2 


